West Point
by sss979
Summary: Before there was an A-Team, before there was a Hannibal Smith, there was a boy learning to make his own decisions in life. Book 16 of 19.
1. Prologue

**RATING: PG-13**

**SUMMARY: Before there was an A-Team, before there was a Hannibal Smith, there was a boy learning to make his own decisions in life.**

**WARNINGS: Adult situations.**

**PROLOGUE**

Hannibal was content. Lying on his back with an arm around the woman beside him, his eyes were closed although he wasn't sleeping. She wasn't, either. He could still hear the hitch in her breathing, not quite calmed yet. With a self-satisfied smile, he turned and glanced at her.

"You okay?"

Her eyes opened at his question. There was a sated, relaxed and mildly shocked look in them that he loved seeing. "Yes. Of course."

"You sure?"

She sighed softly and snuggled in closer to him, resting her hand on his chest and her leg over his. "Why do you ask questions you already know the answers to?"

He chuckled, stroking his hand over her hair as he closed his eyes again. "Just making sure we're on the same page."

"Same page?" Her fingertips were absently tracing over the faded scars on his chest. "Most of the time I don't even think I'm on the same planet as you."

"Now, that's just selling yourself short," he teased.

"Oh, I'm guilty of many things, but underestimating myself is not one of them."

She shifted, and he opened his eyes to watch her turn and rest her chin over her hand so she could look up at him. There was frank, open interest in the way she was studying him. For once, she wasn't even trying to hide it.

"You know, even after all this time, I don't understand you."

"Get used to it."

She laughed. "Now _that's _something I'm not good at."

He smiled back at her, tucking her hair back behind her ear. "But you're learning."

She paused long enough to drop a quick kiss on his lips. But she wasn't ready to give up on her goal, whatever it was. It just wasn't her style to quit so easy. Her hand slid over his chest coming to rest against the side of his face, and once again she was looking at him like he was a puzzle she needed to solve.

"You know, I have lots of _information _on you. But sometimes I feel like I don't really know you. The more time I spend with you, the more of a riddle you become."

"You think so?" he asked, amused.

"I'm not sure anyone really _knows_ you."

"Well, in case you haven't noticed, I don't keep a lot of people around in my life. Outside of my team, nobody's really had a chance to."

"And you keep the rest of us out very well."

He studied her for a moment. She was watching him, assessing her own words very carefully as if she knew she was treading n thin ice but just couldn't stop herself.

"Alright," he offered, pulling away enough to tuck his arm under his head and study her. "What do you want to know?"

She smiled. "I know about Elaine Westman, and what happen in Hanoi. And in Paris. I've read everything in your files - the army's, the CIA's, and Stockwell's."

"Well, you ought to be pretty enlightened, then. He has just about every second documented from the day I entered West Point."  
"Yes, he does. But he doesn't come close to what drives you."

Hannibal shrugged. "That's not exactly something that can be documented. Or explained, for that matter. It's pretty simple to me. My men, my country, and whatever goal I'm focusing on at any given moment."

She chuckled. "That really is impossibly simple."

He shrugged.

She pushed herself up onto her elbows, looking down at him with an openly curious expression. "You know, none of those files have anything about what your life was like before the Army. It's like you never had a childhood. According to all of them you just appeared out of thin air one day."

"Yes, I'm well aware of that."

Even though it wasn't news, it was still somehow satisfying to hear. Stockwell, in all his brilliance had not traced him back any further than West Point. And all the dirty little secrets that came after that... who cared what he knew. That was all pretty much public record now, anyways. Either that, or it didn't make a damn bit of difference, one way or another.

"But you _didn't _just morph into exitence one day. You came from somewhere, you had a past, a family, a history before West Point."

"And you want to know about it."

"I figure it's one of the few things that'll give me a chance of figuring out who John Hannibal Smith is."

"I'll give you a clue." He smiled knowingly as he looked at her. "He wasn't born John Hannibal Smith."

That curiosity flared in her eyes, along with the surprise. She gave a slight, disbelieving laugh. "You mean you _picked _John Smith as an alias?"

"I thought it was fitting, don't you?"

She was laughing. "Oh God yes, it's very, very fitting."

She gave him a quick kiss. There was a mixture of amusement and deep want to know as she pulled back and grinned.

"Well are you going to tell me or do I have to guess?"

He smiled back at her, before laying his head back again, and closing his eyes, breathing deeply.


	2. Chapter One

**PART ONE**

**April, 1946**

**CHAPTER ONE**

"Are you alright?" John asked, casting a worried look at the girl walking beside him. Once again, she didn't seem herself. It was concerning, to say the least.

But she glanced up with a smile, hooking her arm through his. "I'm fine," she assured him. "Just not feeling well this morning."

"Again?"

She laughed quietly – a sound almost like wind chimes in the spring breeze. "It's nothing to worry about."

John frowned, shifting the weight of her book bag on his shoulder. "Maybe you should call the doctor," he suggested. "You don't seem yourself lately."

Sherry smiled softly, pushing her light auburn hair away from her eyes with her free hand. "Mother called him this morning. But he's terribly busy. It seems everyone is catching this strange summer cold. He advised me to rest and that he'd be out as soon as he could."

"Well, maybe you should be at home resting, then."

She laughed. "Locked up all day with Mother in that house? I would far rather stay sick!"

He smiled, but didn't argue. He would be glad when the cold passed, and she was back to her energetic self again. But he could sympathize with not wanting to be cooped up.

The car that passed them kicked up a cloud of dust from the dry dirt road, and they both choked on it. As they watched the vehicle disappear down the long road that would eventually pass in front of the school, he remained quiet. He could feel her eyes on him, her curious stare. He laughed quietly as he turned to her, brows raised.

"What?"

The look she gave him was innocent. "Nothing."

He knew better. "You're staring at me as if you expect me to spontaneously combust."

She laughed again. Something in his chest stirred. He really loved that sound.

As he pulled away to look at her better, she smiled up at him, the early morning sunlight reflecting in her eyes. "Let's not go to school today."

He raised a brow, questioningly. "Not go to school?"

"Let's take the day off and celebrate!"

He blinked, startled by the proposition. "Celebrate what?"

"Celebrate… Thursday!"

He raised a brow. "Thursday is cause for celebration?"

"Of course it is. It only happens once a week. And Thursday the twentieth of April only happens once every few years. So, you see, it's cause for celebration!"

He had nothing to say to that.

She laughed at the skeptical look on his face. "Oh, come on. It's not like we've never done it before."

"Yes, but I might remind you that last time we got caught."

"And in spite of that, it was worth it. And as I said, this is a special occasion."

He hesitated a moment, and she tipped her head with a smile.

"Are you going to make me twist your arm?"

He laughed softly, and slid his arm around her waist, pulling her close. "Hardly," he whispered as she melted into his arms, sliding her hands up to his shoulders.

"Good." Her eyes were dancing as she pressed in close to him. "Let's go then."

A light kiss on his lips and she was off and running. He followed on her heels, away from the road and into the field, past the tree line and out the other side. There she stopped, right where he'd expected her to.

He watched with quiet interest as she sat down beside the tree to unbuckle her shoes. She didn't stay seated for long. As he set their books down beside the tree, she reached up expectantly. He steadied her while she pulled herself to her feet, and smiled as he watched her reach under her long skirt. She shed her white stockings with minimal difficulty, and set them neatly by her shoes. Something about seeing her do that always made him smile. It was so carefree, without a thought for manners or consequences - a snapshot that would always linger in his mind.

She left the stockings and shoes on the grass as she took a few joyful steps forward, into the running water of the creek that wound its way around the tree and through the field, finally disappearing into the woods about fifty yards away. As she began searching the clear water for pretty rocks, he sat down to remove his own shoes.

"Are you coming to dinner this weekend?" she asked, poking at the stones with her toes to turn them over.

"Dinner?" He glanced up, brows raised.

She tipped her head as she turned to look at him. "You forgot, didn't you?" She didn't give him a chance to answer. "Did you even ask your parents?"

"Oh! Dinner."

He'd been so busy thinking about her stockings, he'd nearly forgotten that she was still waiting for a reply from him on the invitation extended a few days ago. He sighed as he set his shoes aside and slipped off his socks.

"I did ask them, and they said they'd love to come."

"Oh, good." She gave a sigh of relief. "For a moment, you had me concerned. Mother has already started preparing."

John laughed. "It's only a Sunday dinner."

"Yes, but you know how she is about company."

He nodded, rolling up the bottom of his pants. "I thought we'd agreed that I wasn't much of a guest." He glanced up at her briefly. "After all, I've spent almost as much time in your house as in my own for… well, my whole life."

She laughed – a light, happy sound that reminded him of tinkling wind chimes. "Yes, but your parents are still company."

He rose to his feet, and crossed to the water, testing the temperature before stepping in. Even though it was nearly May, the water was still cold. It flowed from an underground spring less than a mile from here. They'd traced it to the source years ago, curious as to why it was cool even when the few lakes and ponds were like bath water in the heat of the summer.

"Indulge her, John." Sherry was smiling as he looked up at her. "She does love her formalities."

"Formalities," he repeated, stepping into the water. His toes curled almost involuntarily. Boy, that water was cold! Sherry didn't even seem to notice.

"Should I dress for the occasion as well?" he teased.

"You might consider it." Her smile remained in place as she lowered her eyes to the water again, taking a few tiny steps, kicking lightly at the rocks.

He raised a brow. "Do you intend to dress up?"

"I might. If you'd like to join me."

He rolled his eyes. "It hardly sounds appealing, but I'll do it if I have to. I do know how your mother gets."

"My mother?" She pouted. "I should think you're far more interested in impressing _me_."

A confident smile was all he needed to answer her. She was plenty impressed with him and they both knew it.

They poked around in the water until their toes went numb, then retreated to the sun-warmed grass. When they'd regained feeling in their feet, they ducked under the canopy of the tree and sat down with their backs against it. Hours had been spent here, from the time they had been old enough to wander away from their own yards. It was sheltered on two sides by small hills, and on one side by the woods. Besides that, the tree was a Willow, with its branches hanging all the way to the ground – into the creek on the eastern side.

Though sheltered, it wasn't much of a "secret" place; in fact, it was in the middle of an open field and both sets of parents knew they could find them there. But John could hear his mother's whistle from the back porch - it carried even over the hill - and as long as Sherry was home before dinner, there was little chance that anyone would ever come looking for them.

"Feeling better?" he asked, hopeful.

She smiled. "Much. Perhaps I just needed a short vacation."

He chuckled, reaching into his bag and offering her the sandwich she'd brought for lunch. "Hungry?"

She looked at it, then looked at him. Something in her eyes stopped him in his tracks, and he held her stare. The way she did that was amazing; he wondered if she even realized it. That subtle look, the soft, knowing smile that drew his lips to hers with a pull he couldn't have resisted if he'd wanted to. He set the sandwich aside and raised his hand to the side of her face, fingers brushing lightly over her cheek as he slowly leaned in and kissed her. Her skin was hot to the touch, face flushed as he pulled back slightly and stared into her eyes. He could get lost there…

"You are beautiful, Sherry."

Even her ears turned red as she blushed deeply, lowering her eyes away. "No, I'm not."

He smiled. Of course she was. She knew it, too. They played this game often. "Just because you don't believe it doesn't mean it isn't so." He slid his hand gently back, into her dark hair curls, cradling her head as she leaned slightly into his touch. "You're the most beautiful girl in the world."

She smiled at him. "You've not seen all the girls in the world," she reminded him. "You've never so much as breached the boundaries of Kansas."

"But I will," he said quietly, watching her eyes as he stroked her cheek with his thumb. "And I'll take you with me."

Those words brought a light to her eyes that was hidden most of the time. It made him smile. As she leaned in to kiss him again, the smile melted into a soft moan that he fought to suppress, a low throbbing warmth that ached to be closer to her.

"I look forward to that day, John," she whispered against his lips.

Eyes still closed, he listening to his breathing, felt her breath. "It's not far off," he promised. He opened his eyes slowly, and watched hers as he nuzzled her gently, nose to nose. "It would be tomorrow if I could manage it. Someday I'll take you on adventures all over the world. Just like in your books."

She smiled softly. "I'll like that very much."

He kissed her once more, slow and gentle, then handed her the sandwich as he sat back.

"So have you heard yet?" she asked as she watched him.

"Heard?"

"About your application."

He couldn't help the sudden freeze, and the moment it took to get his thoughts back on track. "Oh, that."

"Oh, that?" She laughed. "Don't sound so excited!"

"You know this is all about what my father wants for me, right?"

"Not just your father. It's a wonderful opportunity. I want it for you, too."

He looked up at her for a long moment, but there was nothing but open honesty in her eyes. She meant that. And somehow, that was the only thing that made him manage a smile as he continued. "The letter came. I was accepted to West Point."

Her eyes brightened, and she squealed with glee as she dropped the sandwich as she turned to grab his arm with both hands. "John, that's wonderful news! Why didn't you tell me as soon as you heard?"

He just couldn't hold the smile as he shrugged. "I've had a lot on my mind."

Her smile fell slowly as she watched him, confused and struck by his lack of enthusiasm. "It… It _is_ wonderful news, isn't it?" she asked cautiously. "I mean, it's an amazing opportunity and you worked so hard for it. You should be ecstatic."

He sighed deeply. "Yes, it is wonderful news." Even as he said it, he knew he didn't sound convinced, much less convincing. "Had I not been accepted, there most certainly would have been hell to pay with my father."

The look of concern on her face deepened. "John, what do you mean? I know your father wanted you to go, but I thought _you_ wanted to go to West Point, too."

"Of course I did. It's an excellent school. The best."

"You _did_? What changed?"

He turned and looked at her, forcing a smile as he reached up and caressed the side of her face lightly. "I fell in love with you."

The look on her face softened. Everything about her softened and grew warmer in that moment, and he felt his heart melt right along with her.

"Oh, John..."


	3. Chapter Two

**CHAPTER TWO**

He was dizzy. Lightheaded and contented, he opened his eyes to stare at the thick branches of the tree overhead, tangled over each other and blocking out the bright afternoon sun. The air was cool without it, but the warmth of the girl pressed close to him more than made up for it.

"What can I do for you?" he asked quietly, letting his eyes slide closed again. He could still feel his body throbbing, and he jumped reflexively as her hand brushed that overly-sensitive part of him – the erection that hadn't quite faded completely.

She breathed deep, her body rising and falling in his arms, and he opened his eyes to see her smiling up at him, her head resting on his shoulder.

"Just hold me," she breathed.

Very slowly, he reached up and brushed a few locks of hair away from her face. God, she was beautiful. The soft, simple look of an angel…

"That's not enough," he protested.

Her fingers against his cheek sent a fresh wave of warm, pleasurable feelings all through him. She smiled as her touch trailed along his jaw, and lightly across his lips. "It's enough for me."

He believed her. This beautiful creature could never tell a lie. "I love you, Sherry."

I love you, too."  
He pulled her closer, gathering her into his arms. He didn't bother to fasten or even pull up his trousers, and as she moved closer to him, she draped her long skirt across his lap. His arms around her similarly hid the fact that her shirt was unbuttoned. They were innocent – displaying no evidence of their forbidden lovemaking, except for the contented smiles resting on their lips.

"You know that I'll wait for you."

John opened his eyes slowly and stared up at the trees branches.

"And surely you can come home for holidays and the like."

"Four years is a very long time," he sighed.

"And in four years I'll be eighteen. We can be married as soon as you come home."

"We could be married before then if your parents consented."

He looked up quickly to see her reaction. She was startled; she couldn't hide it. After a long moment, she shook her head, lowering her eyes.

"They wouldn't consent."

"Even to me?" He tipped her chin up, drawing her eyes to his again. "I've known you _and _your family since before you could walk. I'm not some stranger off the street. They know I would take care of you"

"They wouldn't consent, John," she said again.

"I should at least try."

"No, you shouldn't. Besides, we talked about this. Your acceptance would be revoked if you were to be married! Students at West Point cannot have any dependents. You were the one who told me that."

He sighed deeply, bringing one hand up to her hair and stroking his fingers through it lightly, careful not to tangle them in her dark curls.

She was quiet for a moment before she pressed again, softly. "John, why aren't you happy? I really wish you would be happy. You should be celebrating."

"Celebrating what?" he sighed, noting the bitterness in his own voice. "My father's victory?"

"_Your _victory, John. Your father's not the one going to West Point."

"That's because he already did. And he'll be happy to tell you all about it if you give him the chance."

She sighed. "This isn't about him, John. It's about you. _You _wanted this, remember?"

"No. I don't remember."

"Then let me remind you."

She pushed herself up, onto her elbows, looking down at him. His eyes were involuntarily drawn to her open shirt and the soft curve of her breasts.

"You were the one writing essays and letters, looking for a sponsorship. You were the one who dug your heels in and said you'd go nowhere else. What changed?"

"I already told you."

"No, that's not good enough. You know I'll be right here waiting for you, when you finish. And I'll go with you anywhere. They'll allow us to live together on base if you're married – wherever you go."

"What if there's another war?"

She couldn't hide the flicker of fear that crossed her eyes. She lowered her gaze, licked her lips, and looked back up at him with a determined stare.

"Maybe you wouldn't have to go."

"With that kind of education? That's exactly what they will be training me for. I'd be going."

"But you'd come back. You wouldn't go to the front lines."

"I could. But it doesn't matter; I'd still be gone."

"And I would wait for you."

"For how long?"

"Until you came home. John…" She shifted, placing her hands on either side of his face and holding his gaze to hers. "I love you. I've always loved you. I'm not going to leave you; you need not worry about that."

"I'm not worried about you leaving."

"Then what is it?"

He shut his eyes, turning his head away slightly. After a few moments of silence and a couple deep, slow breaths, he looked back up at her with a pained expression. "I don't want to be without you," he admitted quietly, his whisper so low it was barely audible. Just the thought of leaving her made his chest ache.

"All my life, Sherry, this has never been an option. It's never been a question of whether I'd be going to West Point; it's been a certainty. I wasn't given a choice, another option. When you're told something for so many years, you believe it without questioning it."

"So why are you questioning it now?"

"Because my father had to _retire _before he was allowed to be my father." The words were out of his mouth before he could consider them. "Before that, I hardly knew him. He came home on leave – a few days, a week… then he was gone again. Even when he was home, he wasn't with us. After a day or two his mind would be right back to his unit, his men. In his letters to Mother all he talked about was coming home, but when he was home, all he thought about was being back in the field. And when the war came..."

John trailed off, shaking his head. Father had retired after the war. He didn't have the heart to tell her that the man hadn't slept through the night since. At all hours, he paced the house, muttering to himself - or maybe praying. Whatever he had seen over there, it haunted him in a way John had never seen a man haunted.

"John."

He snapped himself back to the present, and looked up at her as she held his face again in her hands. "What?"

"I insist that you go to West Point," she whispered. "Because if you don't, you will regret it for the rest of your life. And I insist that you enjoy every minute of it, and celebrate your great victory. And if you love me, you _will _do this. For me."

Her voice was quiet, but it held such determination, it would have been pointless to argue with her. He sighed as he reached up and stroked the side of her face lightly.

"I do love you."

She smiled, and leaned down to kiss his lips lightly, melting into his arms again. "Then it's settled. Congratulations on your acceptance to West Point."

*X*X*X*

The sun was just beginning to sink towards the horizon when John realized they needed to get back. It was one thing to explain away an hour or two after school let out. It was quite another to justify taking the entire afternoon and evening when there were chores to be done, not to mention homework. Of course, in order to have homework, they would've had to actually go to school.

There would be hell to pay when they were caught for this, he knew. It was a small town, and nothing went unnoticed here. But he didn't care. It had been worth it. Pausing at the gate that led up to her house, he turned to her and smiled. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Of course." She smiled back at him, then glanced at the house. "Even if they ground me again, I'll see you in school."

"You know, it's a very good thing you don't have an older brother or someone that they could charge with escorting you to school just to make sure you experience that grounding to the fullest extent."

Her laughter was light and musical as her hand slipped around his. "No one could keep me away from you."

"That's a bold statement," he said with amusement. "I would be very interested to see you back it up."

She blushed a little, but didn't let go of his hand. "Even though I'm grounded I still spent the day with you. That should help you see how serious I am."

"Oh, is _that _what this was about?" He laughed heartily.

"What do you mean?"

"I _thought_ it was a little odd for you to be the one suddenly coming up with the idea that we should ditch school."

The smile that came over her was heartbreakingly beautiful. "That's because I love you, John. And I want to be with you, always."

"You will be." He let go of her hand and brushed her hair back lightly. Then, holding the back of her head gently, he tipped her forward to kiss her brow. "And I love you, too, Sherry."

Her eyes slid closed and she sighed, relaxing at his touch. "Oh, John, I'm going to miss you while you're at West Point."

He couldn't quite ignore the way his mood fell at the mention of West Point. That was something he didn't want to think about right now. Maybe ever.

"But as soon as you graduate, we will be married and together forever." She looked up again at him, love and dreams shining in her eyes. "Just think of all the places we'll see and the life we'll have together. It will be perfect."

He sighed as he hugged her, then pulled away slowly with a modest kiss on her cheek. "We'll be together."

"I know."

It was a promise. One that avoided all the rest of what she'd said. He smiled at her, and gave a slight nod in the direction of her house. "Have a good night, Sherry."

"I will, but they'll be better when I can spend them with you."

He smiled, and watched her as she reluctantly pulled away, turned and walked up the sidewalk to her front door. He waited at the gate for her to disappear inside, with a tiny little wave over her shoulder at him, then turned away and headed in the direction of his own house.


	4. Chapter Three

**CHAPTER THREE**

The rain had started when John was only about a hundred yards from Peter's house, with a bucket full of very delicate raw eggs. By the time he reached the porch, he was soaked to the bone. He took a minute to wipe the water off his face with his hand before he knocked and, to his relief, Peter answered. As usual, he was smiling.

"Mother thought you guys could use these, before they start to go bad." He held up the bucket that was half filled with rainwater in addition to the eggs.

"Well, hell yeah. Ma and Pa will be thrilled to have 'em when they get back."

He took the bucket from John's hand and stepped to the side, motioning with his free hand. "Come on in."

"Thanks."

Peter smirked. "A smart boy like you ought to be bright enough to get in out of the rain."

"Pete, if you don't knock it off with that smart boy crap, I'm gonna pound it out of you."

Peter laughed as he turned and moved to the small kitchen. The joke had been between them for years, ever since Peter had left school to devote himself full time to the farm. Initially, it was John who'd ribbed him. Somewhere along the line, the tables had turned.

"You couldn't pound a nail with a ten pound hammer, let alone take a hard working farm boy like me."

John followed, watching as Pete laid the eggs on a dish towel by the sink, then reached into the cupboard next to the sink, pulling out two old mason jars. "All that book learning is making you soft. Here."

He paused his teasing only long enough to grab a jug from under the sink and pull the cork out with his teeth. John could smell the grain alcohol from where he sat. It wasn't until Pete had poured out two fingers into each jar that he finished.

"Have a snort of this. It'll put hair on your chest."

"Oh, perfect. Just what I need."

Pete smiled at the sarcasm as John took the glass, then snagged one of the sturdy wood chairs from the table, swinging it around until it faced the fire.

"So where _are_ your ma and pa, anyways?"

"In town. They'll be back in a few hours."

John took a swig of the liquor and tried not to gag. "Good God, what is this stuff? Moonshine?"

"Only the finest," Pete laughed. "Pa just finished this batch. He's making his deliveries, then him and Ma are going get some oats from Agway."

Peter took a small sip and somehow managed to not catch on fire. He must have been used to his Daddy's home brew.

"I hear your days of soft living are coming to an end." Peter's smile grew. "Your dad's been bragging to everyone who'll listen 'bout his son, the West Point man."

"My father doesn't even know if I've been accepted yet."

"If?" Pete raised a brow. "Since when has your old man ever not gotten his way?"

"He's not the one making that decision. And it's a hard school to get into."

"Yeah, I know. And you worked damn hard to get in."

"So have a lot of other people."

Pete tipped his head, studying John curiously. "Since when have you ever not been confident?"

John frowned, irritated. "It's not confidence that's the problem."

"So what is?"

John leaned back, feet up on the wall as he watched the fire, taking another - very careful - drink. "You know, since the time I could walk, everybody's just assumed that I was on a one way path to West Point and military greatness. I've never had choice in any of that. There's a part of me that hopes I _don't _get in."

"You going to tell me you would rather say in this god forsaken dirt farm?"

"Are you kidding?" He glanced back at Peter, smile wide. "I have _no _intention of staying around here, West Point or no. The world is just too big, with too much to see."

"And this town is too damn small to keep you."

Peter understood all about expectations. When his pa had gotten hurt, Peter had to drop out of school so they could keep the family farm running. It made him understand about being trapped, too. John didn't have to explain.

"So what's got you set against West Point? Do you not want to go? Or do you just not want to give your old man the satisfaction?"

John's smile fell again, just as quickly, as he looked back towards the fire. "I never said I didn't want to go." He paused for a long moment. "But now that you mention it, I CAN think of plenty of other ways I'd much rather spend the next few years."

Peter walked back to the kitchen and poured himself a second drink. It was half gone before he spoke again. He wasn't looking at John; he was looking out the window at the gray sky and mud.

"I don't care if you go to West Point or the Girl Scouts, just so long as you find something that holds your interest." He tossed the rest of his drink back and turned to look at john, his eyes uncharacteristically serious and intense. "You got a choice, John. Get the hell out of here."

"I intend to." There was nothing but determination in that statement. He let it settle for a moment, then glanced back at Peter with a smile. "But in case you're wondering, I have been accepted to West Point."

Pete answered with a snort of laughter. "No shit. Did you think for a second they wouldn't have a room waiting for you?"

"No."

"Hell, John. Way I figure, you're either going to end up being the law or running from it, one or the other."

John smirked at that. "If that's the case, I think one sounds infinitely more fun than the other."

He didn't bother specifying which was which. He didn't need to. Pete had known him for too long to not be able to tell just by the tone of his voice.

*X*X*X*

The sound outside her window was enough to wake her up. Startled, she opened her eyes and sat up, watching the shadows. The wind? It seemed awful loud to be wind. A prowler? No, of course not. The last time they'd had a prowler worth calling the sheriff about in this town had been before she was even born. But as the window opened and the shadows took shape, she was able to make out the clear form of a man. Too startled to cry out, she only gasped.

"It's okay." The whisper was just loud enough to make out. "Don't be afraid, Sherry. It's me."

Her eyes widened and her hand went to her mouth. "John?"

"Yes."

As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, they widened. "Are you wearing pajamas?"

"Yeah." His tone made it sound like he went for a midnight stroll in his pajamas every night. "I hope you don't mind."

"Mind?" Her hand dropped from her mouth as she giggled. "You look like a little boy who couldn't wait to see his Christmas gift."

He chuckled quietly as he came closer, and perched at the foot of her bed. "Well, if it were anywhere near Christmastime, I might have to adjust my wardrobe just a little. It'd be an awful cold walk."

She giggled quietly. "Oh yes. Maybe a matching robe and cap?"

He nudged her feet aside, folding his legs on the bed and resting comfortably. "I'll make a note of it."

She shook her head in astonished happiness at the sight of him sitting there, full of such confidence and mischief. "John, what on earth was so important that it couldn't wait until morning?"

He shrugged. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" Now she was confused.

"I couldn't sleep. I thought I would come and see if I was the only one having that problem."

"Well, I can assure you that I was sound asleep before I heard a prowler climbing in through my bedroom window."

He laughed. "A prowler? Here?"

"Yes, the sheer unlikeliness of that happening was what kept me from calling for help."

"Unlikeliness?" he teased. "Are you making up words now?"

She rolled her eyes. "Unlikeli-...? Hood? Some of us are not straight A students, you know."

He smiled. "Perhaps we could convince your parents that you need private tutoring."

"I think they'd be afraid of just what you might teach me. And rightfully so."

The stunned, feigned horror was enough to make her laugh out loud. "You make it sound as if I'm a bad influence on you!"

"A bad influence, no. But certainly not a proper one." She leaned forward, giggling as she came closer to him and lowered her voice to a whisper. "Oh, my knight in shining flannel."

He smiled, and reached out to stroke his fingers over her chin, pulling her closer with the promise of more. He leaned in to meet her, nose to nose, still smiling with that same teasing look in his eyes. "Shall I whisk you away to happily ever after?"

He could feel the way her breath hitched and feel the soft little rush of air against his skin as she sighed. "I think I would like that." Her eyes dropped and her cheeks flushed. "Even more than I you're your pajamies."

He smiled, and drew her in for a slow, gentle kiss. But even that kiss was more of a tease. He drew away long before she was satisfied.

"Just in case we had any thoughts of _not_ being caught, as I recall, your parents are in a room just down the hall."

Sherry bit her lip, and glanced at the door, then back at him. Her hand moved up his chest, toying with the buttons of his shirt. "We could tell them you were sleep walking."

His fingers were wandering, along the side of her neck, over her shoulder and down her arm, exploring slowly with feather-light touches. "Or we could be very quiet, and tell them nothing at all."

She shivered slightly, and moved closer to him, sliding her hand over his shoulder. "Anything you want."


	5. Chapter Four

**CHAPTER FOUR**

John was warm, and so comfortable he couldn't stand the thought of waking up yet. But he could already feel that dreamy, floating sleepiness drifting away. His fingers were moving, naturally and instinctively over warm skin. Not _his _skin. He smiled as he realized that he was not alone in the bed, and put an arm around the warm body next to him, pulling her in closer.

He could feel that erection he had every morning when he first woke up. _This _morning, he'd be putting it to good use. Not even fully awake, he was nuzzling closer to her, kissing the back of her neck as he slid his fingers down and between her thighs. She stirred, a soft sigh turning to a moan as she turned towards him, legs parting a little wider to welcome his touch.

He still hadn't opened his eyes. Kissing down to her shoulder, fingers exploring slowly, he breathed in her scent deeply. Very slowly, he was waking up, and there was more purpose in his stroking. He opened his sleepy eyes as he moved back just enough to pull her onto her back, settling her gently as his kisses moved to the top of her chest.

If his thoughts had been on anything other than how good it was going to feel to be buried inside of her, he probably would have been a little more alarmed when he opened his eyes to find the room so light. As it was, he ignored that fact and instead focused on her. He could feel her breathing change, more and more shallow with every passing moment. Slowly, her eyes opened and she greeted him first with a smile and then with a furrowed brow. "John?"

"Hmm?"

Kissing her lips softly, he parted her thighs with his as he moved over her. Her hands stopped their slow stroking on his back and she looked around.

"John, what time is it?"

"Morning," he answered brilliantly. "Sometime. Still early."

His hands and kisses didn't stop moving over her. But she wiggled beneath him as she craned her neck, looking over at the nightstand and the clock on in. There was a sharp intake of her breath and she pushed against his chest and whispered franticly, "Oh my God. John, stop! It's 7:30!"

Underneath him she was scrambling, trying and failing to get out from under him. He glanced at the clock. He wasn't going to hold her down, and he turned to his side, but he made no move to get up, or to cover himself, as she scrambled up out of bed. Reclining comfortably, calmly, he simply watched her.

"So?"

Yeah, okay. So he really shouldn't be here at 7:30. Sneaking back into his own house - in his pajamas, no less - was going to be interesting. Not to mention the walk across the field to get there. But he'd worry about that later. Right now, his attention was on the curves of her body, as beautiful in the morning light as they'd been the night before.

Grabbing the sheet and clutching it to her chest, she launched herself out of bed, spinning in a frantic circle as she threw the door of her closet open, brutally and hastily yanking a skirt and blouse off their hanger, so hard he was surprised the seams didn't give way.

The sheet was dragging on the floor as she stumbled to her vanity. John watched her calmly, so amused by her panicked attempts at getting her clothes on that for a moment, he almost forgot that he'd rather she kept them off. It was comical, really - watching her try to get her bra and panties on while holding the sheet up, as if she had something to hide.

"John, Daddy will _kill _you if he finds you here!"

"I don't doubt it."

"So why aren't you moving?"

Slipping her blouse over her head, she put one leg into her skirt, keeping it under the sheet. He smiled. "You know, I _have _seen you naked before, Sherry. Very recently, too."

She did half jump, part twist maneuver to get the other leg in, then she was forced to make little hops as she tried to pull it up to her waist.

"John, get up! Daddy has a loaded shotgun and he may very well use it if he finds you here!"

John sighed deeply, contentedly, turning onto his back and stretching. He glanced again at the clock, letting his mind wander over various options for getting back to his own room without being caught.

"You are insane, you know that?" Sherry hissed at him in a course whisper.

"I probably -"

"Sherry, dear?" He cut off suddenly, recoiled from his stretch, and immediately snapped around to look at the door as the voice came through it. "Are you alright?"

The sound of the doorknob turning registered on an instinctive level. Sherry gasped. John turned and rolled to the floor, landing as softly as he could on the other side of the bed just as the door opened.

"It sounded like a herd of elephants was stampeding up here," the woman said. "What on earth is going on?"

"Oh, um, I... I'm sorry. I just um... I overslept and I was trying to hurry to get dressed for school."

"Darling, it's Saturday."

Sherry froze for a moment. "Oh. Yes. I suppose it is, isn't it?"

Her mother chuckled. "Put on your play clothes and come down to the table. I'll make you some breakfast."

"Yes ma'am."

As her mother stepped out of the room, closing the door behind her, John pushed himself up, grabbing his pajamas off the floor as he stood. Unlike her, he was no more shy in the harsh morning light than he'd been the night before. He was beaming at her as he redressed.

"I think that went rather well."

Eyes wide as saucers, Sherry watched him. "You are crazy. You know that, right?"

If it was possible for his smile to grow any bigger, it did in that moment. He left his shirt mostly unbuttoned as he came closer to her, slid his arms around her waist, and pulled her into a deep, thorough kiss. As he withdrew, he kissed her cheek once more.

"I love you, Sherry. Enjoy your breakfast."

And just like that, he was out the window, maneuvering carefully over the roof of the porch before he checked the area around him and jumped down to the ground, bolting towards his house.

*X*X*X*

"John, did you get the mail this morning?"

John's eyes snapped up from his dinner plate, locking on his father just long enough to make contact. "Yes, Sir. I put it on the kitchen counter."

"Have you gotten your acceptance letter from West Point yet?"

John's jaw tightened. At least every other night, they went through this. His patience for this particular conversation was beginning to wear a little thin.

"No, Sir."

"Seems odd. You should've received it by now."

John set his fork down and pushed his plate forward slightly, folding his hands. "Father, when I _do _hear from West Point, there is no guarantee it's going to be a letter of acceptance."

"Oh, John," his mother replied, "don't start that again."

"I'm not starting anything," John said firmly. "It's a simple fact. And making it sound to everyone in the entire town like I've already been accepted _and _decided to go could be very embarrassing if either of those things don't happen."

"What do you mean either of those things?" Father challenged.

John sat up straighter. "It may make you uncomfortable to think that I have a decision to make in all of this, but that doesn't change the fact that I do."

"You made your decision when you sent your application."

"Wrong. _You _made my decision when I sent my application. I'll have to make mine when I see what possibilities I have to choose from."

"Possibilities?" Father laughed. "Just what sort of options are you hoping to have laid out before you?"

The mocking laughter made John's jaw screw even tighter, but he had long ago learned how to play this game. Looking up and locking eyes with the man at the head of the table, he answered slowly and evenly. "West Point is not the only school that I applied to."

"No, but it will be the one you attend."

John hesitated for a moment. Did he really want to pick this fight? He knew how it would end - the same way it always did, with anger and postulating and some demonstration of his father's authority. It would be worth it if there was even a chance that something might be accomplished. But since there was no such possibility, he really found no point in a power struggle he would, for all intents and purposes, lose.

At some point, he would have to face the fact that he'd already gotten the letter. Until he figured out how he wanted to address it, better for it to remain in the back of his mind than in the forefront.


	6. Chapter Five

**CHAPTER FIVE**

It seemed the summer cold had finally gotten the best of Sherry. It was the first time since second grade that she had missed a day of school. John had stopped on his way home, only to be told what he already knew - that she wasn't feeling well. He'd thought of climbing up to her bedroom just to see for himself. But that was something of a trick in broad daylight, and if there had been anything seriously wrong, they would have told him. He'd been on good terms with her family his whole life.

He'd spent the latter part of the afternoon with Peter instead, and was careful to be home by dinner. But he could tell from the moment he stepped through the front door that something was wrong. It was a feeling so strong, it made him freeze in place.

The air was so thick he could almost cut it with a knife. As he shut the door behind him and headed from the foyer to the living room, he stopped dead in his tracks. His mother and father were both seated on the loveseat. Sherry and both of her parents were on the sofa. His joy at seeing her well was quickly silenced by the fact that eyes were down, her face streaked with tears. And they were all waiting for him.

"Mr. and Mrs. Richards," he greeted with an attempt at a smile. It was not returned.

He stood still in the silence that followed, not sure whether to sit or leave, speak or wait to be spoken to. Finally, it was his mother who looked up at him. "Son, is there anything you need to tell us?"

"Uh…"

He wracked his brain, flickering a glance towards Sherry. Had she said something about their unofficial engagement? Surely that couldn't be what this was about. For one thing, it was no surprise to anyone. They had grown up side by side in a town of two hundred people. Their school was one of the few in the country that still operated out of a single room. They'd been inseparable from infancy. Hers, at least, since he was several years older.

For another thing, it didn't explain her tears. He could find no explanation for that. Even if she had suggested the idea to her parents - which she would never do without him present; he was sure of it - and even if they had refused to give their consent, it was only a matter of time before she would no longer need their consent. It was no cause for tears. So why was she crying?

"Son?"

He shook his head, snapping abruptly out of his trance. "Sorry. Um, yes, Sir. Actually…" He took a deep breath, and let it out slow. There was only one thing he could think of that he'd been hiding. "I've been accepted to West Point."

The angry sigh from his father elicited an immediate reaction - more words to cover up the mistake.

"I wasn't hiding it." _Liar…_ "I was just trying to wait for an opportune moment."

His father shut his eyes. John noticed the way his grip on his knees tightened until his knuckles turned white. But he didn't speak. Suddenly, John was entirely unsure of himself . Even if he had been hiding it, the fact remained that he'd been accepted. Anger was not the reaction he'd expected from his father. The man had groomed him since birth to carry on the West Point tradition; he should have been celebrating his win. That should've overridden any anger.

John stood still, reading the faces of the people in the room. His mother's look was cold. Mrs. Richards was trying to hold back tears – mostly succeeding but for the way her lower lip quivered. Mr. Richards had fire in his eyes. Fury. Why?

"Is there anything else?"

John laughed tensely. "Uh… no? Not that I can think of."

He raised a hand to rub the back of his neck. His skin was crawling. He didn't like this. Something was wrong, and he wanted to know what.

"Why? What is this about?"

"Maybe you would like to explain to me…" Mr. Richards' voice was measured and even, but his grip on his knees was flexing, a mirror image of John's father. "Why my fourteen-year-old daughter… is in a family way."

John stared at him blankly, not comprehending. Several long, lingering moments of silence gave him a chance to repeat the words over and over in his head until they made sense, and he felt his eyes widen.

"She's…?" He looked at Sherry, confused and struck. "You're what?"

She looked up at him, tears flooding her eyes again. "I'm sorry, John. I didn't know that it was –"

"You!" Her father cut her off with a calmly raised hand, finger pointed in her general direction. "You will not speak. You are fourteen years old. You have nothing to say."

Sherry obeyed. She shut her eyes tight, and her shoulders shook as she sobbed silently. John stared at her for a long moment, letting the shock fade away, letting the words settle deep down inside of him. A family way. As in, with child. She was going to have a child. She was going to have _his _child. He took a deep breath.

"I uh…"

All eyes except Sherry's rose to him – glares and cold, unfeeling looks. He filled his lungs again, slow and steady, and set his jaw, putting his shoulders back.

"Mr. and Mrs. Richards, I realize that this is not…" He breathed out, then tried to fill his lungs again. He felt like he could only use the top portion of them. His heart was beating in his ears, deafening him. But he kept speaking, as steady as he could. "It's not an ideal situation. But I want you to know that I have every intention of doing right by your daughter, and you. I intend to marry her. As soon as possible. Before the baby is born, if you'll consent."

"Absolutely not!"

John blinked, truly startled by the response. "Excuse me?"

Sherry hid her face, not even bothering to quiet her sobs this time. Mr. Richards rose to his feet, taking a few steps around the coffee table. John stepped back instinctively from the impending threat.

"And just how do you intend to provide for my daughter, boy?"

John stared at him, struck. "I'll… get a job." Truth be told, he hadn't even thought about that.

"And give up West Point!" His father's fury echoed in the tiny room. "Give up a tradition and career that you could be proud of for… for work as a hired hand somewhere?"

John's eyes narrowed slightly as he watched his father rise, and round the sofa to pace behind it. Very slowly, his shock was turning to anger. "A hired hand can put food on the table. And it seems I have a responsibility to do that."

"No! Absolutely not! You still have obligations to this family and you will fulfill them!"

"Obligations?"

Though the anger and surprise were equally strong, he was having a hard time arguing against a logic he couldn't begin to understand. Wasn't this what he was supposed to say? The responsible and mature thing to do in this situation? Was he the only one who knew that?

Mr. Richards clenched his teeth, stepping in closer. "You are not to see my daughter again, do you understand me?"

Surprise tipped the scale against the anger once again. "Not to see her!" he cried, disbelieving.

"You are not to speak to her. You're not even to _look _at her!"

And slowly, the anger balanced out. "If you think you can undo what's been done by keeping me away from my rightful wife and child, then you need a lesson on the cycle of life."

John saw the hand only a fraction of a second before it connected with the side of his face, hard enough to snap his head to the side. His fists clenched at his side as his cheek burned and his eyes involuntarily stung. Funny thing about a slap to the face – the stinging pain itself made one's eyes water.

John looked immediately back at the man with a furious, indignant glare, but he didn't move. The challenge was plain as day, but neither of them spoke for a long moment. Finally, Mr. Richards stepped back.

"What is it you're hoping to accomplish by keeping us apart?" John demanded again. "She's with child. We can't undo that."

"You are going to West Point."

John turned his eyes to his own father.

"As part of their criteria for acceptance, you can be neither married, nor responsible for a child."

"I am _not _going to West Point." John wasn't even aware of the words until they came out of his mouth and he realized just how good they felt to say.

His father stalked forward, a low growl in the back of his throat. "How far do you think you'll get, boy?" he snarled. "I can see it in your eyes. You think you own the world. You're thinking to take that girl and run off somewhere with the spare change you got in your pocket. But let me tell you something, boy, that won't get you very far. And how far do you think you'll get when I cut you off from this family?"

"You want to leave my inheritance to charity, you go right ahead," John snapped back.

He wasn't about to deny that the thought of running had already crossed his mind. If they truly were going to force this issue, to treat him as if he had no say in the matter, he would be _compelled _to prove them all wrong.

"I'm more than capable of a hard day's work. And I'm more than willing to do it. Because if what you're saying is true, I have a bigger responsibility than carrying on your reputation at your alma mater."

"You are not of legal age," Father said flatly. "Therefore, this child is our responsibility."

"Only for another six months, and by that time the child will be born!"

"And you will be at West Point!"

John was silenced by his father's rage - an instinctive response - but his jaw ticked as he clamped it shut. The older man took a deep breath, and his eyes moved slowly between Sherry's mother and father.

"My wife and I will do our very best to ensure that Sherry and her child are financially cared for."

"Financially cared for?" John repeated in horror. "You're going to… to _pay _them off? To pay them so they'll refuse to let me marry their daughter?"

"You will _not_ marry my daughter!" Mr. Richards said flatly. "That is not in question here,"

John spun to him. "That's _exactly _what's in question here!"

"She is fourteen-years-old!"

Mr. Richards stepped up again, but this time, John stepped in to meet him, fists clenched and eyes narrowed. "That's right," John growled. "She is fourteen years old and she has my child. Therefore they are both _rightfully _mine!"

From the sofa beside Sherry, her mother cleared her throat. The sound made Mr. Richards take a step back.

"We may be jumping to conclusions in that it would be best for her to have the child in the first place."

John's jaw dropped. Sherry's eyes were full of fear as she looked up, from her mother to her father and back again. But she said nothing. Finally, John clenched his jaw again and shook his head slowly, eyes locked on Mrs. Richards.

"I won't allow that," he said firmly, his voice low.

"You have no say in the matter!" Father yelled. "What part of that do you not understand?"

John ignored him. "I won't allow you to put your own daughter's life at risk." He looked back and forth, feeling the anger building up again, overflowing. "What the hell is wrong with you? _All _of you! I love her! And I would gladly marry her and work my hands to the _bone _if that's what it took."

"That is no life for either of you!"

John took a step forward, towards his father, eyes blazing in anger. "What the hell do you care! That's not for you to decide! This is my life!"  
"I forbid it!"

"And I as well!"

"Then to hell with both of you! I don't give a damn how you feel!"

"Watch your mouth," Mother warned, eyes fixed on the floor.

John ignored her, turning his attention fully to Sherry. "I _will _marry you," he said, voice full of determination. She looked up at him, tears still streaming from her eyes. "Better sooner than later. But in the end, it'll make no difference. I _will _be there. And I _will _support you. _And _this child."

She shut her eyes hard and nodded slightly, curling in on herself as her mother rose to her feet.

"I think we've said all that needs to be said," she declared. "Sherry, get up."

Sherry rose to her feet, and followed her mother to the door of the house with a lingering look at John. His eyes followed her as she passed, but he didn't speak.

"I meant what I said," Mr. Richards growled, stepping closer and lowering his voice. "Stay away from my daughter. Or I'll be in jail. And you'll be six feet in the ground."

John didn't answer him. He didn't speak as the man turned away. The door slammed behind them, and John turned to face his parents, now that the company had left. But they didn't speak. Neither of them spoke. They all remained still for several long, silent minutes, then both of them simply turned and left, leaving him alone in the room with his racing thoughts.


	7. Chapter Six

**CHAPTER SIX**

_Tick!_

Sherry opened her eyes at the sharp, unusual sound that had woken her. Not sure what it was, she listened for it to repeat itself. A few seconds later, it did. _Tick!_ She sat up, pushing her hair back from her face as she glanced at the clock. It was after midnight. What on earth was that sound?

_Tick!_

The window. It was coming from the window. She pushed the blanket aside as she rose to her feet and padded silently across the floor. The shadows outside were deep and concealing. She stared for a moment down at the yard before she pulled the window opened, squinting into the darkness.

"Psst! Down here, Juliet."

She leaned forward, looking down over the lip of the porch roof. Her eyes widened in surprise as she saw the outline of a young man.

"John, what are you doing here?" she hissed. She couldn't quite hide the panic in her voice. "If my father catches you here, he will _shoot _you!"

The dark outline took a step forward, under the edge of the roof where she couldn't see him. A moment later, he was on top of the porch roof, crawling to her window. Her eyes were wide with horror, just waiting for the crack of boards that meant he was falling through.

He didn't fall. She stepped back as he reached the window, and landed on her floor like a cat – light on his feet. Mere inches away, she was suddenly hit with the realization that he was really there, really standing in her bedroom. And she hadn't the slightest idea what to say to him.

She tried several times, working her jaw, before she finally got the words to form. "John, I'm so sorry, I –"

His finger against her lips cut her off. "Shh…" He smiled softly, and gently slid his hand back into her hair, pushing it away from her forehead. "It's okay."

She shook her head, feeling her eyes burn with tears as she struggled to think of how it could _possibly _be okay. "No, it's not."

His eyes softened, filling with deep concern and care, and he put his arms around her shoulders, pulling her close. She clung to him, hands against his back, face against his neck as she cried quietly. She wasn't sure how long they stood there, holding each other tightly, but finally her tears had been spent. She pulled away slowly, looking up at him as he brushed her cheeks gently.

He lowered his eyes, and she followed his gaze as he gently pressed his hand against her stomach. She smiled tightly, and placed her hand over his. It was still far too soon to feel anything there, but he kept his hand still nonetheless as he looked up again and caught her gaze.

"How long?" he asked quietly.

"The doctor said about six weeks."

His look was pained as he studied her eyes. "I want to be with you," he whispered. "I want to be a part of this."

"You are a part of this. Like it or not, you're a very big part of this."

She forced a smile, and he returned it as he leaned in and kissed her lips lightly. As he pulled away, he searched her eyes. "I have a plan."

She blinked, confused. "What? What sort of plan?"

"We can leave. In the morning, rather, right before dawn. We can go anywhere you want to go."

"What? John, you can't be serious!"

"I know where to get some money. It'll be enough to take us anywhere. I'll take my father's car and we can drive as far as the train station. We'll be on that train before anyone even realizes we're gone."

"What about West Point?"

"To _hell _with West Point, Sherry!"

She jumped, eyes wide and frightened at his tone. She'd never seen him angry before, at least not at her. Not alone in her presence. She didn't know how to react.

"We are adults now. We're going to have a child of our own. That means making our own decisions."

He must have realized he was frightening her, because his eyes softened as he reached up and gently took her chin between his fingers.

"It will be hard," he admitted. "But we'll be together. And I will never let anything hurt you."

"How would we survive?"

"I'll enlist if I have to."

She shook her head, looking away. "Oh, John, no."

"We'd go wherever they sent us - married, like you said before."

"How would we be married?"

"We'll find a way. Even if we have to lie."

"My father would kill us." She had no doubt of that.

"Not if he couldn't find us."

A slight smile cross his lips, and he moved his hand to brush her hair back from her face. She stared at him in shock as the implication of what he was saying truly dawned on her. Confusion and fear filled her thoughts. How could he be so calm, so confident? Did he understand what he was asking of her?

"You're asking me to leave my family behind forever?"

"We'll have our own family. We'll start it new."

"But..." Her voice was shaky as she put her hand on her stomach. Suddenly, she felt faint. "What about when the baby comes? John, I don't know_ how_ to raise a child! I don't know the first thing!"

"Then we'll learn it together."

The fear was quickly turning to panic. She took a few steps back until she could sit on the edge of the bed. There, she covered her face and shook her head as if that could somehow make it all go away. "Oh, no, no, no, no..."

"Sherry..."

She peeked through her fingers reluctantly and saw him kneeling in front of her, hands on her lap. "If we stay here, they're never going to let us be together."

The words he spoke were soothing and calm. Reluctantly, she took her hands down. He held her gaze steady, eyes deep and pleading.

"And I want to be with you. I'll take care of you, Sherry, I promise. I'd never let anything happen to you."

"You would want to, John. You would try. But -"

"I _would_!"

She could feel the tears sliding down her cheeks as she shook her head. "No, John, you wouldn't be there. You'd be off fighting or working and I'd be all alone, in a strange place. With a baby and no family or friends to show me what to do!"

"The money I can get will tide us over until you _make _some friends. I won't leave you all alone."

Her hand closed over his, clutching it tightly. "Please, John. Please. My parents will come around once the baby is here. Go to West Point."

"I am _not _going to West Point!" There was that anger again. He was on his feet, and pacing a few steps away from her, in an instant. "Why doesn't anybody hear me when I say that!"

She could barely speak through the fearful tears. "Please, John. I want you to go. We will have holidays and summers until you graduate. Then we can be married, when you're an officer and you can support a wife and child without working yourself to death. And without having to give up our families."

John stopped pacing, turned to face her, and spoke with a low, steady voice void of all emotion. "I am not going to West Point. And nobody - not my father and not you - is going to make me."

"Why?" she pleaded. "Why won't you go? You wanted it so badly."

"My _father _wanted it."

"And so did I. So _do _I. That was enough for you then, why isn't it now?"

He lowered his head, gathered his thoughts, and crossed back over to where she was perched on the edge of the bed.

"This is my choice, Sherry," he said softly, sitting down next to her. "I choose not to follow in my father's footsteps, to become that haunted, soulless man that he is."

"And you think you will be less haunted if you enlist?" she asked in disbelief.

"I'll only enlist if I can't find work."

"And how are you willing to gamble with something like that, but not on the chance that I would wait for years for you, when life could be good and we could be happy!"

"Because I control the risk, if we leave here tonight. But four years is a long time and a lot can happen in four years that I can't control."

"Do you think I wouldn't wait for you? Do you think I would ever even consider another man in my life?"

"I think if you love me, you'll come with me tonight. Because I am leaving one way or another. And I want you to be with me."

"Oh, John!"

A fresh batch of tears was pouring from her eyes. He lowered his hand to cover the one she had on her stomach, pressed his palm flat against her. "I don't want to see my child on holidays and summers. I want to be with you. I want to be a family. Let me take care of you, Sherry. Please. I can do it. I'm willing to do it. Whatever it takes."  
She knew he meant those words with all of his heart; and part of her wanted to believe him. But he didn't understand. She hadn't even understood how a baby was conceived before Dr. Upton had explained it to her. How could he expect her to raise a child alone?

"Please, John. Go to West Point, become an officer, and then come back to me."

"I am _not _going to West Point!"

"Please!" The tears were streaming from her eyes. "Do it for me."

"No!"

He pulled away, pacing towards the window this time. For a moment, she was afraid he was going to leave.

"I won't do it for you any more than I'll do it for my father. If _you _love _me_, you'll come with me tonight."

She shook her head, overcome by the fear as warm tears flowed so fast, she barely felt the last ones cool. "John, this baby will always be yours, just like I will always be yours. _N__othing _will ever change that. But I want more for you than a life of working just so we can barely scrape by."

"That part isn't up for debate. You're not listening to a word that I'm saying!"

She shuddered as she sobbed, covering her face again. She hated seeing him angry, and if he talked any louder, her father might hear. She had no doubt he would come to the door of her bedroom with his shotgun.

"Don't throw away your future for me, John, please. It's only four years out of our whole life time together. We'll be here waiting for you. I promise."

"Waiting for what?"

"For you to graduate."

He didn't answer. She felt his hands close around her wrists, gently, and he pulled her hands away from her eyes. "Look at me," he said calmly. But it was clearly an order.

Reluctantly, she raised her eyes to his.

"I want you to look at me, because I want you to hear this. I am not going to West Point. I am going to the train station. And I am never coming back."

Something inside of her broke in the moment of silence he gave her to let that sink in. It sank far, and it dragged her right along. She knew that tone in his voice. It was that tone he got when he made up his mind, and nothing could change it. But she had to try. What he wanted from her, she couldn't give.

"John, please, no. Please. I love you but we can't do this now. Please don't make me do this." She shut her eyes as a soft sob shook her whole body. "I can't leave my family. Not now, not like this."

Suddenly, she was wrapping her arms around him, pulling him tight against her. Hanging on to him with every ounce of strength she had, the way a child clings to a teddy bear or security blanket.

"Please, please, don't ask me to do this. I can't, I can't, I can't. John, I can't. I'm so scared."

She wept as if her heart was breaking as mumbled into his chest, her tears and his body making the words hard to distinguish, turning her pleas into a bittersweet chant. John was quiet for a long moment before he finally wrapped his arms around her, returning the embrace. He didn't say a word as he kept her close, safe and warm while she let the tears flow.


	8. Chapter Seven

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

She was still sleeping, relaxed and peaceful in her dreams, when John checked the clock one last time. The way her hair fanned out on the pillow around her, like an auburn halo, made her look like an angel. It was the way he'd always remember her - the way he wanted to remember her.

He reached out and ran his fingers lightly over her cheek, tucking that errant strand of hair behind her ear, then leaned down to kiss her one last time. In the predawn light of the room, he redressed silently and opened the window with one more lingering gaze at her. Then he slipped away silently, not waking her.

The sky had just changed to lighter shades of deep purple when he slipped out her bedroom window and climbed back down to the ground. There was no sound except the cooing of morning birds. The world was still and peaceful as he wandered across the field that separated her family's property from his. He was walking slowly, but his mind was reeling, miles away.

This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. He loved her; she loved him. That was supposed to mean everything. Love, honor, cherish; all things he would have gladly given her, no matter the cost. Things he had given her.

He had planned to marry her before he knew she was carrying his child. That had just made him want it more. Maybe more importantly, it made him want it now. He wasn't impatient. He could wait four years for what he wanted. But with a baby involved, those were four years he'd never get back. Four years that he didn't want her struggling through without him. Four years he wanted to be with her.

Somehow he found himself at their spot. The rough bark of the tree bit into his back as he slid down the trunk until he was sitting in the dew covered grass, eyes fixed out at a distant spot on the pink horizon. His mind played back all the stolen moments they had had, here in this spot. That baby had more than likely been conceived right here. And he didn't regret a moment of it. He still didn't…

His hand slipped into his jacket pocket, fingers running over the contents. What was the purpose of those feelings? What did those words really mean? He had offered her everything he had, everything he was, everything he would ever be - all of it, all of him. And it wasn't enough. She was too scared, too frightened, too controlled to take a chance on him. For all of her love, she didn't trust him to provide and be a man for her. Their families and her fears were more powerful than her love.

That fact alone broke his heart in ways he hadn't imagined possible.

All of his life he had been living for someone else - for his father's name, for his mothers pride, for Sherry's love. West Point had been his father's dream and he had followed along. He had been unquestioning, obedient. He'd done all of the work without hesitation, because it was expected. He'd done everything right, to his own detriment.

Before now, John had only ever made one decision that was his own: to be with her. Now, he'd made another decision: he was not going to West Point. He'd been so sure of his plan, and sure of her trust and love for him, that he hadn't even considered that the two couldn't coincide. In the end, she would've taken away both of those choices from him, sending him off to West Point where he couldn't be with her. And it wasn't that he thought she wouldn't wait, or that four years would destroy what they had. It was much simpler than that.

That was not the path he chose.

As sun rose slowly into the sky, burning the dew off into a fine blanket of mist, he could feel himself changing. A new reality for a new day. Love was for children and fools and he was neither anymore. He was done being what other people expected and wanted. His parents and schoolteachers and the authority figures - the people he had blindly trusted - none of them really had his best interest in mind the way they said they did. They all served their own ends. If they had cared anything for him, and what he wanted and needed, they wouldn't be trying to sabotage the one thing he'd actually valued.

They wouldn't have _paid_ to make the one thing he wanted go away.

The bitterness that was creeping in was unlike anything he'd ever felt before. There wasn't anything he could do to change the past, but he would be damned if he would spend another second living for their future. From now on every choice he made would be his and his alone. He didn't need family or friends or lovers or any future that embraced them. He would be his own man. He would make his own life.

It the serene peace and quiet of that spot, under the willow tree that he had carved their initials into, he felt something pass. That child, that person he used to be, was gone. He had outgrown this town and these people. And even this meadow. It was dead to him, and he to it.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed himself up until he was standing tall and straight. Pulling his hand from his pocket, he dropped the contents on the ground. There was a tiny sound as the ring hit the meadow grass, and for just a second sunlight flashed off of the cloudy diamond - the best he'd been able to afford. He left it in the dirt, where it belonged, and turned away. It was time to face his future

*X*X*X*

The heavy wrought iron screen door squeaked loudly when John pulled it open. It was overdone, too ornate for a farm house, but Mother had insisted on it. They were the only people in the county with the means to afford such a fine door; no plain wood one would do. The house and its expensive furnishings were Mother's pride, without the joy. They, like him, were symbols of her status as matriarch of one of the wealthiest and oldest family of the state. It was all nothing more than one big example of how other people's perceptions and appearances were more important than reality.

He could have used the back door, or climbed through his window like he had done countless times before. But there was no point in avoiding the disapproval of his parents anymore. Not bothering to remove his boots, he made his way to the dining room, where he knew they would be having breakfast as scheduled. God forbid anything be done without planning and discipline. That type of thing was far beneath them.

His mother let out a startled gasp as soon as she saw him. But she still managed to carefully place her china coffee cup into its saucer before speaking. "Jonathan Hadrian Ellsworth, remove your shoes this instant!"

God damn, he hated that name. That was going to be the very first thing to go, when he left here.

"You know better than to track mud and filth on my floors."

Her voice was both disapproving and cold. The only two things he had come to expect from her. He ignored her, looking instead at his father. The old man was sitting at the head of the table with his back impossible straight. He'd been reading the morning paper a moment before. For a second, the only the sound was the sound of him slowly folding it and setting it aside. His father had mastered the art of making others wait for him, proving he was in control the conversation and making them feel somehow privileged to finally have his attention. It was just one of many games John was tired of playing.

With a stiff turn of his head, Father fixed his cold blue eyes on him. "I see you decided to come home."

It was amazing how he could make a simple statement sound like a question, a demand, and an accusation all at once. Someday, John was going to master that art.  
"You're only half right," John answered flatly. He wasn't looking for an argument, but there was no sense in going out of his way to avoid one either. One way or another, a fight was coming. "I _did_ make a decision."

Mother's mouth clamped shut, her lips pressed into a hard line. It was an expression he was used to seeing from her.

"Sneaking out in the middle of the night is not acceptable behavior. What would people think it they knew you were running around at all hours?"

"You better not have been anywhere near that Richards girl."

John growled. "'That Richards girl' has a name. She's sat at your dinner table at least a thousand times; you ought to know it."

"How dare you speak to your father that way!"

It was pointless to address Mother. She was nothing more than a supporting player. His father's word was the law, and she would never dream to defying the rules. When it came to family dynamics, Father ran this household like he ran his military units. She was nothing more than his second in command, charged with carrying out his orders - whether those orders be to produce a son or set the dinner table.

Father's granite expression never changed. "The rules do not change at your convenience. Other than chores, meals, and school for these last few days, you are no longer permitted to leave your room. Since you have more than proven yourself untrustworthy, you will be treated accordingly."

He spoke with all the assurance of a judge passing sentence. Father's word was law, and he was judge and jury. John nodded slowly, quietly, and hesitated for a long moment before speaking calmly. "I am here to give you one last opportunity to change your mind about me and Sherry."

There was no change in his father's expression. It was as cold and impassive as ever. "There is nothing further to discuss on that matter."

John took a deep breath and let it out slow, measuring his words and tone carefully. He already knew how this would be received. "I am not going to West Point. And since I know you will have a very difficult time accepting that, I'm going to try one more time to make you understand what I'm actually asking."

Looking up, he met his father's emotionless expression with one that was equally cold.

"You are either going to gain a daughter and a grandchild, or you are going to lose a son. The choice is yours."

Mother was suitable horrified by his breach of protocol. But his father reacted as if this were just a childish temper tantrum, best handled by simply not addressing it.

"Being irresponsible enough to father a child does not make you a man," Father said simply. "It only underscores your need for discipline and firm guidance. Which you will receive here, until it is time for you to start West Point."

It wasn't an argument or even a point of view; it was a decree from on high. An order to be followed without question. Clenching his jaw tight, John felt the first hint of anger pushing through.

"Fathering a child is only irresponsible if you choose not to _be_ a father. I made no such decision."

"You have no option to make that decision."

"Of course not. Because you, you had to get involved. To make it all go away with money, like you always do."

"And let me tell you," his father ground out, "it was a handsome price to pay."

"Your money can't fix this," John answered, fists clenching and releasing at his sides. "It just makes a bigger mess of things, making it look like I'm the one who screwed up here. But I didn't. I _knew_ what I wanted, and what I wanted is consistent with what I've done. You are the one who made it out to be a mistake, a problem, something to throw money at and hope it disappears!"

That stone cold mask on his father's face never so much as slipped, even as he arose out of his chair. Standing board straight, he somehow gave the impression that he was much taller than John, but they were almost equal in height now.

"You wanted to get the fourteen year old girl next door pregnant?" He laughed mockingly at that. "Well, son, I think that does in fact prove that you are far too young and rash to be making your own decisions. That is a right you have yet to earn, boy."

His father didn't move towards him. He most likely figured a show of his presence, a reminder of his authority, would be enough to have John to back down. But he didn't back down. Instead, he took a step forward.

"I could've taken care of the fourteen year old girl next door before you muddied things up with her parents. I could've taken damn _good _care of her and that child, too! So don't you dare make it out like I'm not willing to take responsibility for my choices like an adult. Without your involvement and your goddamned money, there would've been no deal with her parents, and they would've _gladly_ consented to my marrying her before she has a bastard child!"

"Enough!" Cold eyes flashed with anger, but even when he raised his voice, it was still controlled. "There will be no further discussion about this. You made a mistake and we took care of it. One day, you will be thanking us for it."

It was just as simple as that to him. He paused for a second as he took a deep breath, then clasped his hands behind his back like he was addressing his troops.

"No amount of yelling or acting out will change the facts at hand. You will be staying here, doing what you are told until it is time for school to start in July. And if you do not pull yourself under control this instant, you will be spending that entire time in your room."

John's fists pounded the table so hard his mother jumped.

"Why does nobody listen to me, god damn it!"

"I have not heard anything worth listening to," his father retorted, just as calm as if John had shown no anger at all. "One day, when you older and wiser, you will understand."

"I am not going to West Point."

Father unclasped his hands and spared a glance at his watch. "I expect you to finish your normal chores and you'd better have them finished by ten hundred hours. Mother will need your help address the graduation announcements."

That was it. Their talk was over. John's time with his father had run out. For a moment, he simply stared, rooted to the spot by the sheer arrogance and audacity of the man standing before him. Then he turned without another word and headed up to his room.

His bags were already packed. He wasn't taking much. He didn't really find much worth taking, when it was all said and done. Without even bothering to look around, he slung his book bag over his shoulder and headed back down the stairs, picking the car key up off the foyer table where it always was. He paused just long enough to grab his mother's wallet from her purse, then calmly walked out the front door. By the time they realized he wasn't coming back, he would be long gone.


	9. Chapter Eight

**PART TWO**

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

**New Orleans**

Stepping off of the train in New Orleans, John felt as if he had been transported to a different country. Or perhaps it was a different planet. He had heard from his father about the smell of the ocean, but he had never realized he would be able to smell it even when he couldn't see it. The salt in the air, the humidity that stuck to his skin... it made him wonder just how far he was from the water's boundaries. The drawl in speech that made the people almost unintelligible, the unfamiliar clothing and style, the sheer diversity in the men and women... He'd never seen anything like it. Black and white and something else altogether - Cuban? Puerto Rican? - speaking English and French and what he guessed had to be Spanish. The sound was chaotic, and it was overwhelming, and it was... comfortable - a lull that swallowed him up and welcomed him just as soon as he set foot in the unfamiliar city.

No one knew him here, and no one cared.

His first stop was for clothing. He knew just by looking around him that he was going to need something that made him stand out less like a farm boy and more like the man he wanted them to see. With a pocket full of cash and a smile on his face, he strolled into one of the stores and emerged nearly an hour later in black slacks, vest, and tie over a white silk, button down shirt. It took a venture into a few other stores to really feel as if he'd completed the look, new black shoes and a fedora. His old clothes, and his old life, he resolutely deposited in the trash.

He paused to smile at his own reflection in the window of one of the bars he passed, strolling down the brick sidewalk. Everywhere around him, there were lights and laughing, drunk people. Wherever he was - he made it a point to check the next street sign, so that he didn't end up totally lost - it had more happy, smiling young and old men and women than he had ever seen in his life. The nearest place he could find to this location would be where he wanted to lay his head. This was his new home.

On one side of him were automobiles lined up on the curb, and passing between them were streetcars. John had never seen anything like those streetcars. Not quite trains but not cars either, they were somewhere in between and, he quickly learned, a quick and cheap way to get from one part of the town to the other.

On the other side of him were the clubs with their smooth jazz and blues sounds, the thick smoke and smell of liquor that he caught every time he stepped past one of the entrances. The barkers for the burlesque shows caught his attention, but not his interest. Not yet. There would be plenty of time for that once he found a place to stay.

As he passed by another club that was full and alive even in the late afternoon heat, the laughter above him made him glance up. Three young women on the balcony, looking down at him. Hands in his pockets, he drifted to a stop, peering up at them in amusement.

The brunette in the middle leaned over the wrought iron railing and through an amazing feat of physics and gravity, her breast managed to not fall out of her very tight, very low cut top. Was that a corset she was wearing as a top?

"Hey, handsome. You lookin' for some fun?"

He smiled back, tipping his hat a little further up his forehead so he could see them better. "Maybe. What kind of fun did you have in mind?"

Damn that Midwest accent that was a dead giveaway he wasn't from around these parts. Of course, maybe that would work in his favor. He'd never aspired to be a wallflower, after all. Maybe they would appreciate "different." He could tell them anything he wanted about where and how he'd grown up. All they knew for certain was that he wasn't from anywhere near here.

"The kind of fun that involves you," the woman cooed down to him. She straightened up and draped her arms over the blondes on either side of her. "_And _my friends here."

There was a slow, sinful smile on her face that promised adventure and so much more. The girls on either side giggled and waved. But before he could answer, the commotion from behind him forced him to turn.

"Hey now, boy, you gonna give the child his billfold back."

It took him a moment to make sense of the scene. A tall, dark skinned man with graying hair and a large scar on his cheek was holding the wrist of a scrawny, dirty boy who was no older than ten. In the boy's hand was John's wallet.

The sudden panic that struck him was hard to hide. If he lost that wallet, and all the money in it, he would have nowhere to go and no way to get there! He hesitated, uncomfortable with just how clueless he had been. He hadn't even felt the boy touch him, much less put a hand in his pocket.

"You girlies best move on," the man yelled up at the girls above them.

By the time John looked up, the girls were gone. With a sheepish grin, the boy held out the billfold as he muttered, "Sorry, Mister. Didn't know you was a friend of Tibs."

Stunned, John blinked a few times as he took the billfold back and put it into the _front_ pocket of his pants this time. As he gave one more bewildered look at that kid - what was he even supposed to say to him? - the older man nodded. "Go on home 'fore I tell yo' Mamma you's up to yo' old tricks."

The boy didn't think twice. In a blink, he was gone, lost in the crowd. John turned his eyes to the man who'd intervened on his behalf, not entirely sure what to make of him. Should he thank him? Should he be wary of him, too? Was he a good Samaritan or did he have some kind of ulterior motive just like the girls? And underneath all of that, what was John supposed to say to the first real live black man he'd met?

Tibs was wearing a grin on his scarred face. "Aww now, Mister, don't feel so bad. Even the saints themselves fall for that trick."

John stared at him for a moment, then finally gave him a smile, just to see how it was received. "Thank you."

Tibs smiled wider. "Don't worry about it. Naw'lins is like any other woman. Exotic, enticing, fun and downright troublesome if you don't know yo' way 'round her."

John tipped his head slightly as he wondered with mild amusement what sort of woman his hometown was. One thing was for damn sure, she was plain and boring and lacked the sort of intrigue that the women on the balcony had...

Tibs' smile was reassuring. John held out a hand for him, in introduction. "John Smith."

The hand that gripped his was large and callused. "Thibodaux Walker. But save yourself the grief and call me Tibs."

John nodded, and slipped his hand into his pocket - over his wallet - as Tibs let it go.

"Yo' in the best city in the world, but she'll test you. You got people 'round here?"

"No." John gave Tibs a confident smile. "Not yet."

Tibs chuckled at that. "Then let me give you the advice yo' people would. Don't go past the quarter after dark. Don't drink out the glasses at the bars; most of 'em ain't been cleaned since the last flood. Don't touch the policeman's horse. If someone says, 'I bet ya I can tell ya where you got dem shoes,' you say, 'I bet you can,' and move on. And most important," he leaned a little closer, "make sure any fine young woman who wants to lose her religion to you don't have an Adams apple."

John's eyes widened at that. Was the man serious? There was nothing in his expression or tone to suggest that he wasn't, but John wasn't even sure how to react to that advice. Uneasy, he looked back up at the balcony that was now empty above him.

"I'll... keep it in mind," he said hesitantly.

Tibs laughed low, his deep voice almost rumbling. "Good. Now if yo' looking to let La bon ton roulette, then try Jim's One the corner or Pat O's three blocks down. It's on the six hundred block o' St. Peters."

John stared. How much of that was English? Roulette. He'd heard of roulette, but never played it. Was Tibs directing him to a gambling hall? Before he had a chance to ask, the older man had moved on to other topics.

"The hurricanes is a tradition, just don't have more than two 'less yo' real interested in getting personal with the floor."

"Hurricanes?"

This time, John shamelessly interrupted him. Mostly because he wasn't real interested in getting personal with the floor, and it suddenly occurred to him that he hadn't the slightest idea what to do in the event of a hurricane. He hadn't even thought of that. He knew how to handle a tornado; he'd lived through plenty of them. But a hurricane?

The rest of the sentence came together slower. More than two? Tradition? Damn, he was processing in slow motion. He wasn't talking about a real hurricane. The thick drawl certainly didn't help John figure out what he _was _talking about. But he didn't want Tibs to think he was a complete idiot. With a tight smile, John tried to recover.

"I assume it's a drink? What's in it?"

"That's one of the great mysteries of Naw'lins boyo. But it's got 'nuff alcohol to bring down a unit of Marines on leave, and it taste sweet as watermelon wine."

"Watermelon wine?" That was another thing John had never heard of.

Still smiling, the man leaned heavily on the cane to his right. "Tell you what, boyo. How 'bout I buy you your first taste of the Big Easy? Then maybe you can tell me what's in a hurricane."

John studied him for a moment, and cast a quick glance further down the street. It would be getting dark soon, and he wanted to have a safe place to stay tonight. There were hotels - there were always hotels - but what he really wanted was a place to call "home." Still, it wasn't polite to walk away from an invitation like that and, more importantly, Tibs was an excellent local. He knew his way around, and he seemed honest enough. After all, he'd saved John from being the victim of a pickpocket.

Finally, John smiled at him and nodded. "I think that sounds like a fine idea. But only if I can buy you the second round."

"Deal." With a grin, Tibs turned to walk, leaning heavily on the cane as he limped his way through the crowd. "That is, if you done survive yo' first."


	10. Chapter Nine

**CHAPTER NINE**

Only half awake, John was aware of one thing before anything else: he never wanted to drink another drop of alcohol for as long as he lived. It was not that he was unacquainted with alcohol. He'd had plenty - in small doses. It simply didn't taste good enough to make him want to consume it in any significant quantities. But whatever the hell was in those hurricanes, it was _lethal_.

There was sunlight on his face, a warm body next to him. As he forced his eyes open and turned his head, he confirmed that there were actually two warm bodies there - a brunette and a redhead - and he didn't know the names of either one. Come to think of it, he could barely remember his own name. Where the hell was he?

He was awake just long enough to be sick. When he woke up again, he was on the floor. Was he still drunk? His head was pounding, but he was pretty sure he was sober. Very slowly, very carefully, he opened his eyes and looked around. The room wasn't spinning anymore. That was a good sign. Gathering his strength - never, never, _ever _again... - he grabbed onto the side of the bed and pulled himself up.

There were still two women there, snoring softly and very naked. He was naked from the waist down, white shirt unbuttoned down his chest and around his wrists. Where were the rest of his clothes? Looking around very carefully, he found them on the floor, near the unfamiliar clothes of both girls. He looked back at them for a moment, and for a moment he really wished he could remember the night before.

There was a note on the dresser. Head still pounding, vision blurry, he picked it up and moved it closer and further away from his eyes until it came into focus.

"Welcome to NOLA, boyo. Coffee and beignets at Cafe du Mond on 800 Decature are the next step. I usual get mine around 4pm, which is the crack of dawn here. -Tibs"

John stared for a long moment at the note, then at the clothes on the floor, then at the women on the bed. It was a hotel, he was slowly realizing. And Tibs had no doubt been here. John hadn't the slightest clue how or when that had happened, and he didn't really care. It was three in the afternoon. If he wanted to meet Tibs for coffee, he needed to get dressed. And that was going to take a while...

*X*X*X*

The cafe at 800 Decature wasn't hard to find. John still couldn't quite see straight for the headache behind his eyes as he stepped past the gate to the outdoor seating area. He'd never cared too terribly much for coffee. But right now, for some reason, it sounded like heaven. One thing was for damn sure, he didn't want to touch another drop of alcohol for a long, long time.

"Oh, Lordy, Mister." Tibs was sitting at a table to the right of the gate. "You look like you either need some hair off the dog that bit you or some coffee."

John stared at him for a moment. What was that supposed to mean, anyways? He didn't know. And he didn't care. He collapsed into the chair at the table across from Tibs, hiding his eyes from the light.

The reaction was startling and swift. There was an audible gasp from somewhere behind him and Tibs bushed his chair back.

"Ah come on now, Mr. John."

Mr. John?

"You must done had too much to drink. Let me get ya to yo' table."

Tibs was limping around the table, standing behind him now. What the hell? Why did his accent suddenly become so damn thick and what was he trying to get John to do? The words came together slowly. Apparently, he wanted him to stand up.

John stood. It was something like trust he felt for this man, and Tibs clearly knew his way around much better than John did. He'd wait until after he'd had some of that coffee before attempting to figure out what the hell all of this was about. In the meantime, he kept his hand over his eyes, still shielding them from the light as Tibs moved him to the next table over.

A waiter in a starched white shirt and black bow tie was standing next to the table as John sat down, giving Tibs a hard look. Before he could say anything, Tibs was speaking.

"Oh Lordy now, we ain't go no problem here. Mr. John has just been having himself a fine time. His mamma asked me to keep him out of trouble. He just needs some beignets and black coffee and he be right as rain."

Confused, John looked up through his fingers and gave the slightest attempt at a nod. "Yeah," he slurred. "What he said."

Smiling and nodding, Tibs backed up until he was sitting back at the table next to John. There was no stern glance at John, just smiles and, "Yes, Sir. Right away, Sir."

As soon as the waiter scurried away, Tibs leaned over in spoke and a soft voice. "I know you think yo' head my blow yo' eyeball clean 'cross the room, but you gotta be careful or we are gonna end up in a world o' trouble."

John shook his head, keeping his hand up over his eyes. Was that another allegory of some sort? Who was blowing whose eyeballs up? Had he even heard that right?

"Tibs, I don't have a clue what you're saying, you know that?"

There was silence as Tibs started at him with something close to shock. It wasn't until the waiter filled up John's coffee cup and moved off that he spoke again, in a hushed tone. "Are you for real, son? In case you haven't noticed, I'm black as the queen of spades. And you are lily white."

Black. The coffee was black and bitter and tasted like... boiled tree bark. Not that he had any idea what boiled tree bark tasted like, but it couldn't taste much worse. Still he sipped it as fast as the temperature would allow and forced his eyes open to look at Tibs.

The man's question took a minute to process, and John frowned. He didn't know quite how to answer that. At least not without a lot of explanation and he didn't have that kind of energy just yet. He'd seen black men in textbooks, and he knew the ins and outs of the civil war as well as the next person. But somehow he felt all sorts of wrong about telling Tibs that he was the first black man John had ever actually _talked _to. Instead, he just stared blankly, and took another sip of coffee. Alright... so maybe the coffee wasn't all that bad. At least it wasn't alcohol.

"Boy, you must'a been raised so far out in the boondocks even the rabbits wouldn't go."

Once again, the waiter showed up and put three powdery white-covered squares in front of him. John stared at them for a moment.

"Just don't breathe out when you bite into them, or we gonna have snow in Naw'lins."

"What are they?"

"Think of them as square doughnuts, without holes. We call them beignets."

John picked up one of the little squares, studied it for a moment as the powdered sugar dusted down and stuck to his fingertips. He took Tibs' advice and didn't breathe out as he took a bite. It was not too sweet, but it was warm, and soft. In an instant, he knew that this thing in his hand was the most precious thing he'd encountered in New Orleans so far.

It took him several minutes to finish them, and a few cups of coffee, before the headache began to subside. Or maybe it was just that he was getting used to the pain. Either way, he was starting to become a little more aware of his surroundings. As he looked around, he noticed the signs on the posts, separated the colored seating area from the table he was sitting at, next to Tibs.

"Is it like this everywhere?" he asked, trying not to appear as curious as he was. He was pretty sure they hadn't had this problem of sitting at different tables at the club they'd visited the night before. Of course, he didn't really remember last night too well...

Tibs stared at him for a second like he was from the moon, then shook his head a little. "Yeah boyo, it's like this ever'where. But when the drinks are flowing, it don't matter so long as we don't make trouble or we offer entertainment."

"Why?"

Tibs blinked at him again, shocked by the question. It took him a moment to answer, shaking his head slowly. "Don't know. Maybe 'cause people think black is contagious. Or maybe 'cause people need to think they better than someone else. But I thinks it's 'cause people is afraid of what they don't know. An' it's easier to keep the status quo than it is to stop being ignorant."

John took another sip of coffee and frowned at the tabletop, pressing his index finger into the powdered sugar and lifting it to his mouth to suck the sweet stuff off. "Never did care much for status quo," he said, almost to himself. "And besides, status quo is subjective. What's normal and acceptable here wouldn't be, where I come from."

Tibs smiled. "Hell, John, Naw'lins is a whole different world. But not too far back, I'da followed the status quo and let that kid take yo' wallet. I'm born and bred Big Easy, have fun and don't rock the boat was ever'thing I used to know."

John leaned back and took another gulp of the quickly cooling coffee. "What changed?"

John watched quietly as an odd, faraway look came over Tibs. John knew that look, before the man ever opened his mouth.

"The war."

John looked away.

"I joined the Army, 12th armored division. All us colored men led by white officers. It was just more of the same - bunch of crackers telling me what to do. And that's all some of 'em were. Might have stayed thinking like that if it wasn't for my LT."

John dared a glance back at him. The man was lost in his memories, not pushing an agenda.

"He was a big ol' corn fed boy out of Nebraska. Took me a while to figure out that to him, we weren't colored men, we were _his _men."

John looked away again. "That's the way it should be," he said firmly. It felt wrong to think of a military unit in any other terms. The few stories he'd gotten from his father about the bonds between his men made it impossible to _think _of it in any other terms. Black, white, or purple, if they were a unit, they were one. That included their commanding officer.

"I took a bullet in some bombed out, shit for nothing town in France," Tibs continued. "He didn't care if it was nigger blood spilling all over him. He picked my ass up and all but carried me to cover. Never had no one do something like that for me. I knew right then I would follow that man anywhere he went. Not 'cause o' the color on his skin or even 'cause he was an officer. But 'cause he was born to lead. Was deep in his bones and his blood."

John's brow furrowed. Born to lead. He'd heard that phrase before. But he'd heard it in the form of a command, and never one he'd particularly cared for. It was strange to hear it again, not directed at him, in the mouth of one of the "led."

"When we reached the concentration camps, and I saw what evil really was and how it was turned back on people - not because they was black, but because they was different..."

That look in his eyes was the same cold and empty stare John had seen before in hours of silent reflection, his father in the big chair in the living room, staring at the wall for hours.

"I promised myself I wouldn't let being different be the only thing I used to judge people," Tibs finally finished, quietly.

John held Tibs' stare for a long, silent moment, and finally forced a tight smile. "I'm just glad you lived through it. I don't think I'd be able to find my way around this city half as well without you."


	11. Chapter Ten

**CHAPTER TEN**

It had only taken John a few nights to discover there were many kinds of clubs in New Orleans. After three weeks of perusing them all, he had to admit that his favorite was the Starlight swing club on Frenchmen Street - male and female, black and white, soldier and sailor and civilian all together in one loud and energized room. His first few times on the dance floor had been a bit uncoordinated and awkward. Luckily, he had two things in his favor: natural rhythm and the ability to learn fast.

In fact, he had learned many things in these past few weeks. He'd learned that the thick, leathery sweet smoke from the Cuban cigars tasted as good as it smelled. He'd learned that fine clothes not only felt good on his skin, they commanded respect from everyone he met. He'd learned that one could survive on little more than a diet of booze and red beans, and the occasional fried oyster po' boy and Roman candy. He'd learned that women of all types responded well to a smile, and the benefits of keeping a few of them close at hand, at all times.

He'd forgotten a lot of things, too. Mother's chastising, disapproving voice had faded into the background very quickly. His father's scowl was gone, too. Memories of the life he'd left behind only poked through now and again, usually when he was lying in a still room in a half-conscious state of drunkenness, where nothing bothered him.

He'd rented a room in a shotgun shack in Faubourg Marigny, a neighborhood full of local action. And since it was right next to the French Quarter, it was a short stroll to the carnal delights of Bourbon Street He had more than enough cash on hand to pay for it for the first month, and he'd have enough for next month, too. After that, he'd have to start thinking about where the money was going to come from. But that was a worry for another night. Tonight, he was enjoying the company of the blonde on his lap.

One arm around his neck, the other holding an unlit cigarette, she looked him up and down slowly, then raised her eyebrow. "A lady should never have to light her own cigarette."

He smiled, and reached into his pocket for the Zippo lighter he'd bought just a few days before. The thing was amazing. Why anybody would still use matches was beyond him. Flicking the flame to life, he raised it and lit the end of her cigarette, then snapped it closed.

"There's a lot of things a lady should never have to do for herself," he said smoothly. It was at once a question, an observation, and an invitation. He was still learning this "flirting" game the way they played it here. It was far more sophisticated than the simple courtship he had grown up with.

She took a long deep drag and let the smoke waft away, eyes never leaving his. Foot tapping naturally to the horns and drums and bass combination that made his feet itch for the dance floor, he instead kept his attention on her and the game she was playing.

"What would a sweet little farm boy like yourself know about the things a lady sometimes has to do all alone?"

He raised a brow, amused by her description. "Sweet little farm boy?"

He could feel her fingers stroking the back of his neck as she raised her brows in apparent challenge. He smirked as he reached for his drink, buying himself a moment to make sure he worded his response perfectly.

"I may have been a farm boy. But I've never preferred sugar to spice." He leaned in, putting his lips to her ear and lowering his voice to a whisper. "And I'm _definitely _not little."

She gave a low, husky laugh as she trailed her fingers along his collar, across his jaw, stopping with on finger under his chin. "Cher, that's what all the boys say."

"I can back it up."

"Hmm." She was all but purring in his ear, toying with the buttons on his shirt. "Maybe, if you're very lucky, you'll get a chance to prove that."

"If _I'm _lucky?" he challenged with a smile.

She leaned in to brush her lips against his ear. "If you're very lucky."

For all the challenges he'd had in adapting to this new culture, this new person he was and the totally new way of looking at life, confidence had never been his problem. And women like her were drawn to that. He had learned that much about them. For all of her teasing, she hardly had him fooled. He was the one calling the shots here. He had her and he knew it.

"I've always had a way with luck," he said. "Although I hardly like leaving things to chance."

She was laughing again, taking another inhale, then pressing and twisting in his lap a little more than was really necessary for her to reach the ashtray.

"A wise man works on skills. Have you been spending your time here in Nola perfecting your skills? Or learning bad habits?"

He smiled at her, reaching up to trail his fingers lightly over her collarbone. "I would say it's been a little bit of both."

"There's always more to be learned."

He raised a brow. "And you consider yourself a teacher?"

"Only to the brave of heart and long in... endurance."

"Bravery and length are two things I'm definitely not lacking."

Another inhale, and she crushed out her cigarette, then turned to him with a pout. "What if I don't feel like teaching tonight?"

"Well, then I'd say there's a few things I could probably teach you."

That low sultry laugh was back, and he smiled as he knew she'd bought it - hook, line, and sinker. "Hmm, I think it might be interesting to see you try."

*X*X*X*

The room was nice - far nicer than his own place and definitely a more suitable place to take her. Besides, he could afford it. As he closed the door behind him and set the key on the dresser, he let his eyes run over her once more before he stepped in close and slid his arms around her waist.

"So. What sort of lesson would you like this evening?"

She slid the mink stole off her shoulders and tossed it on the chair behind her. "What kind of lessons can you give?"

"Anything you'd like." He moved his palms slowly up her bare arms, all the way to her shoulders. "I'm a man of many talents."

"I'm a difficult student."

He raised a brow at her choice of words. They were deliberate. What was she getting at? "I'm a very patient teacher."

She turned away from him at that, and wandered over towards the window. "Patient is sweet." She looked back over her shoulder as she added, "And boring."

"Impatient is preferable?" That was a concept that took some getting used to...

"I like to think of it as strong willed. Besides, anything is better than boring."

He studied her for a long moment. She was working up to something. What was it? "If there's a line to be drawn between my will and yours, yours will always take precedence."

She sighed and bent forward over the arm of the chair, giving him a great view of her firm, smooth breasts. But then she picked up the stole and adjusted it on her shoulders. "Boring, cher. Very boring."

Her purse was dangling from her arm as she walked towards him, patting his cheek with her hand. "School's out."

He blinked, shocked and confused, and grabbed her arm as she passed towards the door. That wasn't how this was supposed to go! He'd missed a line somewhere, and he wasn't even sure what he'd missed.

"Hey, wait a minute."

There was a catch in her breath - a gasp of surprise? - and she looked back up at him, but didn't try to pull her arm away from his firm grip. "Too bad, cher. I'm not interested in teaching boys how to be men."

"Boys?" He was indignant at that. Still holding her arm firmly, he pulled her back, closer to him instead of taking a step towards her. The shawl fell off her shoulders as he held her against him. "If that's what you thought, why are you here to begin with?"

It was a challenge and an accusation, but he was caught off guard by the way she responded to it. She was breathing faster, her face flushing. But there was no fear or anger in her eyes, no struggle.

"I'm here because I _thought_ I was with a man who wasn't _afraid_ to take what he wanted."

"Afraid?"

That indignation rose up again, stronger this time than before. It wasn't anger; she didn't know him and he didn't know her. It was nothing personal in that statement. Nothing worthy of anger. But as he twisted her arms behind her, holding them between her back, he kept his grip firm.

Fight or flight instincts flooded her with adrenaline; he could see it in her eyes as she gasped, tipping her head back. But there was no fear. In fact, a slight, seductive smile had crossed her lips. Curious, but still cautious - he didn't want to hurt her and everything he'd ever been taught said that women were not to be handled in this way - he tested the waters.

"What I want was never a question," he said low. "Whether I'd _take _it was never a question. My only question was how. Because that part is your call."

"I already made my call," she whispered back, her tone thick with sex and seduction.

He wasn't sure what this new game was, but he wasn't going to argue. Careful not to twist her arms in any way that would hurt her, but not loosening his grip in the least, he leaned in and closed his mouth over hers, kissing her hard. She made a soft sound of surprise, but it turned to a moan as she melted against him, her lips parting to welcome him. She liked it.

With no script to follow and no idea how to treat a woman who _enjoyed _being manhandled, he was running on instinct alone as he turned and pushed her onto the bed. It was hard enough to make her stumble and fall back onto it, but careful enough to direct her that she would land safely. When she didn't try to get back up, he was over her in an instant, hands closing around the arms that she left flat on the mattress, on either side of her head. There, he paused again, just to make sure.

She was breathing hard enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath as he leaned over her. Lips parted, pupils wide, excitement practically rolling off her, she raised her head up and growled low in his ear. "You're not going to break me, cher."

Cool smooth teeth nipped the skin under his ear, hard enough to leave a mark. He smiled as he moved her hands above her head, holding both wrists between his fingers. His other hand moved down her body possessively, claiming her. The blood stirred in his groin and he could hear his heart beating in his ears. He wasn't going to break her. The concept was at once so foreign and so exciting, he wasn't sure how to respond to it. Eyes locked on hers, he let the instincts take over as he dropped his head and brought his teeth to the soft flesh of her throat.


	12. Chapter Eleven

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

"You've got a lot of soldiers in here."

The bar was a dive, full to the brim with testosterone. At least half of the men were in Navy uniform, and the other half John could bet were sailors. A loud and raunchy crowd that no woman who had any sense would've wandered into. In fact, the only woman in the room was the barmaid. And at seventy years old with a corncob pipe hanging out of the side of her mouth, she was of no particular interest to any of them.

Setting his bottle of Dixie beer down in front of him, she gave him a smile that had more empty spaces than teeth. "Dem boys is ma bread and butter, Beb."

John smiled back. "Still, it's a tough crowd."

Tucking a bar rag that was more dirt than cotton into the apron tied around her ample belly, she chuckled. The sound was low and rumbling, like a diesel engine running on only half its cylinders.

"Non, dey just pass by to vay-yay and have some drinks with der people. Da gets a little rough and rowdy now and den, but dass is just how dey is. Dey don't bother me none. Soldiers knows about respect. Dey treat me good, even doh I fat and old enough to be der nanny."

John's smile remained in place as he lowered his head and took a drink. It was still hard to understand her - the accent that made him slow down and replay it in his mind. But there was something familiar and comfortable about this bar. Something almost... homey.

"Gentlemen, we're here for some good ol' fashioned coon huntin' tonight!"

John turned, a bit startled by the announcement that came from the doorway. It rang out over the sound of the radio, and the conversations all stalled out within seconds. The tinny sound of the broadcasted big band music suddenly sounded deafening as the three men, in Navy uniform looked over the crowd with broad smiles. John turned to put his back to the bar, finishing his drink as the rest of the room remained perfectly still.

The men were clearly drunk, and clearly focused on a singular, unified goal. "Any niggers in here?" the man out front called loudly, scanning every face. John's back straightened as those eyes drifted over him. They had no interest in him, and kept right on going with that amused smirk until their eyes finally came to rest on the two black men sitting together at a table in the corner.

John's eyes darted quickly to them, then back. They were soldiers, too. And in uniform. Surely these three drunks weren't going to start anything with them.

"Aw, lookit. Couple of real pretty ones, too."

Suddenly, the crowd was shifting as everyone backed away. John was on his feet without thought, watching the scene unfold. The two men rose slowly with a look that was not quite fear but certainly not confidence.

"We don't want no trouble from you," one said. "We'll be leavin' now."

Something about that made John's teeth set on edge. Why should they leave? They'd been here first. But as the three men advanced, their victims didn't even raise their fists. They took the blows silently, doubling over, trying to move back.

John wasn't sure why he was moving. It was something natural and instinctive inside of him that gave no thought to the fact that any one of these men had certainly had more training and know-how than he had in hand to hand combat. Aside from a few primary school scuffles over the bullying of the new kids who'd moved to town, John had never picked a fight in his life. Maybe it was the same thing that motivated him now as back then. Whatever it was, it gave him no care for his own safety, or for protocol, or for the eyes of the crowd on him as he stepped up to the man who'd so far served as a mouthpiece for the three of them and was now standing back laughing as his two buddies delivered blow after blow, enjoying every moment of it.

"You know, if you've got a problem here, maybe you and I should take it outside."

The man stared at him for a long moment, looking him up and down. "You gotta be more drunk than even I am," he said with an amused chuckle.

"I'm not drunk," John said firmly. "I'm stone cold sober. And I'm telling you to walk away."

The shockwaves were rippling through the crowd. John felt them, and some corner of his mind screamed at him that he must be crazy for doing this. But he couldn't go back now even if he'd wanted to.

And he didn't.

*X*X*X*

"I hear you and the Gremond boys went and got yourself introduced to the Grand wizard Bouvia and Klan up on Tchoupitoulas Street. Blood still fresh on the bankit."

John looked up from his coffee and scowled at Tibs. The boy looked like he had met up with the wrong side of several fists, and had come out losing. Course. that's exactly what he had done.

"For one thing, I haven't the slightest idea what any of that means. And for another, isn't this town a little big for everybody to be in everybody else's business? I thought I left the world behind me where news travelled faster than I could walk down the street."

Tibs smiled to himself. Tee was wound up tighter than the strings on a fat lady's girdle. Not too shocking. If Tibs had to guess, that fight had been his first introduction to the harsh reality that being right doesn't mean you're going to win.

"Finest information gathering system in the world is right here. If a man falls Uptown, the West Bank know about it before he hit the ground. Just the way it is, no sense in being boude over the fact that da people here love a good story."

"Glad I could amuse you," John said dryly, staring at his coffee.

"Can't says I ever found the Klan amusing. And any enjoyment I got outta watching men beat each other got lost somewhere in Germany."

The anger was boiling over. Tibs could see it in the boy's steely blue eyes.

"There had to be thirty men in that bar. Not a single one of them stepped up. What the hell kind of society is this, anyways, where that's perfectly okay?" It was a rhetorical question, and John didn't wait for an answer. "All _five _of them were soldiers - the three drunk assholes and the two colored guys they beat on. How can you do that to your own goddamn men and expect to survive?"

So that was the issue. Not shocking; Tibs had seen it in the boy the first time he walked down Bourbon Street. He was a natural born leader; it was in the way he walked, the way he looked, they way the world seemed to shift to the side to let him through just because that was what he expected. He was one of the rare combinations of intelligent and charismatic. Even rarer still, he had an internal moral code that he would not just demand of others, he would live and die by it. It was made up of his own rules, his own standard. Didn't matter what the world around him thought was right.

Tibs lowered his head for a second and took a sip of his drink. The Irish cream whiskey in the coffee warmed his throat on the way down. "They don't know no better."

John growled, clearly unhappy with that answer. "Why the hell are you defending them?"

"Hey, you asked a question and I gave you the answer. They learned that being black means you ain't human, and you ain't one of them no matter what. They do what their daddies and granddaddies did. Even if we get our licks in, when the good old boy network gets done, it'll be a black man hanging by his neck. Don't make it right, but it is what it is."

John looked up, eyes on fire as he looked across at the next table where Tibs sat. "That's why they didn't fight back? Fear of retaliation?"

"No. It's more 'cause they don't have anyone to show them _how _to fight back. That they _should _fight back. To lead them into a battle the can win. And not just with fist, but in ways that will change how people _think_ and what they believe."

John growled under his breath as he took another swallow of coffee, and clasped both hands tightly around his coffee cup. "That's _bullshit_," he growled angrily.

That hopeless defeatism - the sadness over the way things were and the powerlessness to change it - should've followed by now. But it didn't. Not with John. Tibs had to smile at that. The boy was like flame in a room full of powder kegs. The more he listened to the things that should've brought him to that point of reluctant, defeated acceptance, the angrier he was getting.

"Trust me, Tee. Showing them that by getting the shit kicked out of you ain't gonna help da cause. Brave and careless is a widow maker." He leaned his arms on the scarred wood table between them. "If you really wants to make a change. You gots to understand not just the good, but the bad, too. Then you gotta use your head make a plan, and then believe in it. 'Cause if _you _believe in it, others will, too. And they follow you anywhere you take dem."

There was no question from John, but no answer either. He just glared at the tabletop, stewing in his anger. It was the kind of fire that only a teenage boy - young and indignant and without fear - could have. Tibs put a hand on the kid's shoulder as he stood. "Come on Tee. Finish your coffee. I gots somethin' I think you needs to see."

John was still glaring as he looked up. "Where are we going?"

Tibs smiled. John had just seen the ugly truth of the world and its wrongs. Now it was time to show him the flip side of that coin. "We goin' to the heart of the matter."


	13. Chapter Twelve

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

If John didn't already trust Tibs, heading way out into the warehouse district with him would've made him more than a little uneasy. There was no one on these streets, only rats the size of possums. John eyed them carefully, hiding his anxiety, trying to ignore the sounds as they fought in the alleyways. When Tibs finally stopped at an old, crumbling building, John's feeling of trepidation - not quite fear but certainly not easiness - grew.

Tibs knocked, exchanged more of that New Orleans drawl that John could barely understand - really, it was like listening to a foreign language half the time - and the door opened to welcome them inside. Shoulders back and eyes darting, John followed a step behind Tibs.

The walls of the place must have been a foot thick and filled with cement, because as soon as the heavy door swung in, the noise hit him. Hot Dixie jazz, laughter, and voices all mingled into to create a sound that was almost alive with its intensity. Smoke filled the hot, humid room that was teeming with people of very size, type, and color. All of them were drinking and dancing.

Tibs made his way through the throng of people, all the way to the back of the main room and then through another door, into a massive warehouse space filled with Mardi Gras floats that towered over the people. It was a less crowded, marginally quieter room. Barrels served as tables, and people were seated around them drinking, talking and gambling.

There was a makeshift bar behind one of the floats. John had no idea what was in the mason jar Tibs handed him, but he wasn't going to try it until he was sitting down, just in case. Following Tibs' lead, he sat down at one of the barrels across from him.

"Welcome to the heart of it all," Tibs said, holding up his glass.

Stunned and overwhelmed by the sensory overload, John followed suit on instinct and habit alone, raising the glass. He wasn't prepared for the taste of whatever was in that glass. It was such an assault on his senses, only John's pride kept him from choking and spitting it back out.

Tibs laughed out loud and clapped a hand on John's shoulder. John wanted nothing more than to get this taste out of his mouth. But there was no way to do that without being incredibly obvious. Except... The instant the thought occurred to him, he was reaching into his breast pocket for the half of a cigar left in there. Of course, as he lit it, he couldn't help but wonder if he was tempting fate. That glass might explode if it caught a spark.

"Tell me somethin', Tee. Look around you. What do you see?"

After getting the cigar lit, John settled back, trying hard to look comfortable, and looked around. The people were mixing and mingling freely, with no regard for race or age or status - if the condition of their clothes was any indication of that. He raised a brow, curious but unable to really describe what he was seeing.

"They don't seem to care. About much of anything."

"See now, Tee, I knew you was a smart one. They don't care."

He pointed his mason jar to a fat man in a Stetson hat, playing cards with a black man who looked older than the hills.

"That man in the hat, his daddy was a dragon in the Klan. The man he playin' with, his daddy was a slave. But here, it don't matter." Tibs took another big sip and somehow his head did not burst into flames. Maybe he had a tolerance for the stuff. There was that look again. "Do you know why that is?"

"Because they're all drunk?" They _had _to be if they were drinking the stuff in that mason jar...

"That helps, but non." Tibs smiled. "They know it's alright _not _to care here. This is the magic that runs the city. They come for the music and the fun, but they stay 'cause nobody care who or what they are outside of here. In this one spot, they can all be people."

John nodded slowly as Tibs waved his glass in a sweeping gesture.

"Just think what could happen if someone showed them how to make the whole city like this place. This is where hope is."

John frowned. "So why hasn't anybody done it yet?"

One more sip and Tibs had managed to finish his drink. And he was still breathing, impressive. "'Cause a real, true, natural born leader is harder to find then a virgin in a whorehouse."

John tensed. Somehow, he could sense where this was going and he didn't like it. Every time someone started in with the "natural born leader" speech, the reaction was instant and instinctive. He actually found himself taking another drink from the jar rather than confront that conversation.

"They a one in a million thing, Tee, and we still waiting on ours. Right now this is just a motley bunch looking to make it through the night." Tibs pushed himself up. "I'm going to get me another."

John watched him go, into the crowd and out of sight, then lowered his eyes to his glass again, puffing a few times on his cigar. He wasn't sure what Tibs was getting at with all that. This problem was beyond him - although it was certainly one that was under his skin. In any case, he certainly hadn't come all this way to get the leader speech. He was glad Tibs hadn't pursued it. But the fact that he brought it up at all was a good indication that eventually, it was going to come out.

He was deep enough in thought that he almost missed the low, female voice talking to him. "You look like you lost your favorite toy, Cher."

He looked up and stared for a moment at the tall, ebony skinned young woman, with curves in all the right places. It took a moment for the reflexes to kick in. He forced a smile he hoped was believable.

"Sorry. Just a little," he glanced around again, "overwhelming. But in a good way."

It was obvious he was a newcomer. No sense in hiding it. She smiled as she sat down across from him without being asked. By the way she handled herself, it was obvious that she was very aware of how attractive she was. His own smile turned more real as he looked her over, and finally extended a hand.

"John Smith."

She placed her hand in his, not shaking, just letting her hand rest in his palm. He turned his hand to meet hers and let his thumb rest over her fingers for a moment - a much more elegant handshake.

"Marie," she offered. Her voice was as delicate as her touch.

"Pleasure to meet you."

"Around here, people can find overwhelming enjoyable."

"Yes, I can see why."

"So what do you find enjoyable?"

His smile grew more comfortable as he relaxed into the conversation. "Beautiful women. Lively music. And good tasting alcohol which, incidentally, is the one thing I seem to be lacking right now. "

He looked at the half full glass, wondering how he was going to choke the rest of it down. She laughed lightly, leaning forward and resting an elbow on the table. "You mean you don't like the finest grain alcohol that can be made in an old wash tub? You _are _new to these parts."

"It's going to take some getting used to." If this was the finest, he cringed to think what was the worst.

Her fingers played against his hand. "Oh, with a smile like that, you're not going to have any trouble with la bon ton roulette."

Without asking and without breaking eye contact, she took his glass and drank. Her smile never faded as the liquor burned down her throat. "You and I could have a lot of fun together, beb."

John raised a brow. That was an interesting prospect. He'd grown gradually more accustomed to the social rules that governed his interactions with Tibs in public. He didn't imagine that those rules were any more lax with a colored woman. So the question here was just how "public" this venue was. He'd have to follow her lead on that.

"What do _you _find enjoyable?" he asked.

Not letting go of his hand, she stood up and moved around the table, sliding into his lap. Once she was seated, her put her hands around his neck and whispered in his ear. "Good looking men, good music, and this."

One hand against his cheek, she pulled him in for a slow deep kiss. A bit startled by her advancement, he nevertheless responded, sliding his arm around her and opening his mouth against hers. The warmth of her kiss was somehow intensified by the fact that he was doing something no doubt forbidden to the rest of the world. Even before the kiss had closed she was loosening his tie, opening the two small buttons below it. It was enough for her to be able to moe her hand down, letting her soft hands run over his collarbone.

Resting her check on his, she whispered into his ear. "I see we like the same things, no?"

His breath caught in his throat as her gentle fingers played over his skin, and he turned his head to gently pull her earlobe between his teeth. "Yes."

Her hands dipped lower. Hidden by her skirt, he could feel her hands undoing his pants, freeing his cock. Lips on his, she made one quick, graceful movement and then she was straddling him. He could feel his cock brushing up against wet heat. She was wearing nothing beneath the skirt that hid them from view.

Her fingers raked through his hair as she tilted his head back, staring deep into his eyes as she sank down on his cock. For just a second, her eyes closed. Then she was kissing him, hard, her tongue matching the rhythm and tempo she was setting with the very discrete roll of her hips. Time and place lost any meaning to him. All that mattered was the tight, wet heat he was buried in.

A sharp stifled little cry close to his ear was the only warming he got before he felt her clamp down tight against his cock and he gasped as he felt himself come. Pressing her lips hard against his they rode out the climax together before she tipped her head towards his ear and whispered low, "Let the good times roll, beb."


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

The trip to the café was so much a daily ritual now, John didn't even think about it anymore. For three months, John's life had seen little variation from day to day, and yet each day seemed to offer something new and interesting. He had met more people, seen more things, and experienced more life in three months than he had in the past three years. Or, for that matter, in the past seventeen.

"I think it's time for me to get a job," he said, glancing up to exchange glances with the man at the table beside his.

"Yeah, Might be good, you learnin a skill and all," Tibs agreed. "What you think you gonna be?"

John considered that briefly. For one thing, he wanted one that paid a halfway decent wage. He had been living rather comfortably as far as finances were concerned for quite some time now, and the fact that the money was finally running out was a big part of the reason why he needed to consider how he intended to make a way for himself. The rent would still have to be paid next month, whether he had money or not.

"I don't know what kind of job," he admitted. "I've thought about going down by the pier and talking to some of the sailors on the merchant ships."

"Sailors?" Tibs shook his head slowly. "That's a hard, lonely, life on the sea, Tee."  
"I don't mind hard work," John said firmly. "I just can't stand _boring _work. I think sailing would be interesting. In and out of ports all over the world..."  
"Nah, trust old Tibs on this. Life on the sea is dull as Louisiana dirt. Nothin' never changes with the fishies and the waves. You got nowheres to go on them boats, buts crazy. Maybe you goes joins the Navy, sail world as a squid on Uncle Sam's dime, maybe then you be a sailor."

John rolled his eyes. It wasn't the first time Tibs had brought up that option. John had always ignored it so far, but maybe it was time to lay the thought to rest. "I have no desire to enlist. Besides, if I did, it wouldn't be with the Navy."

"Nah, you be Army, just likes you Papap, no?"

John blinked in surprise, and stared blankly at Tibs for a long moment. "Whoever said my father was in the Army?"

Tibs smiled. "For true now Tee, I knows them when I sees them. I spent my times eatin' and a sleepin' and breathin' Army green, remember?"

John sighed as he looked down at his coffee cup for a long moment. "My father is a retired Army major. His only regret is that he retired before making colonel."

"Then why'd he do it?"

"They wanted to move him to a post in Europe." John leaned back, a sardonic smile on his face. "It was one thing for him to live a few hours away from my mother and I. Quite another when he started talking about moving to Berlin."

"Why not live with him on the base?"

"My mother didn't want to leave the town she was born and raised in. But the bigger reason is probably because he didn't really want to be around us. If he'd wanted it, she wouldn't have had the option to say no."

Tracing his finger along the rum of his coffee cup, John's smile slowly faded. "Of course, she was the one who begged him to turn down the post overseas. He lost the promotion he would've gotten out of it, and didn't have it in him to wait for the next opportunity when it would probably involve the same kind of move. So he retired. And I think, in a way, he always resented us for it."

"So you don't wanna be the Army man like you Pappy, no?"

"I'm _not _an Army man like my father," John answered firmly. "There's no want about it."

Tibs studied him for a long moment, saying nothing. Then, finally, he withdrew the flask from his pocket, pouring a shot of Irish Cream whiskey into his coffee before replacing the small container in his jacket. "That got to be the sorriest, most piss poor reason to run away, ever."

John tipped his head, curious once again. "Who says I'm running?"

Tibs laughed, but it sounded more old and sad than amused. "You runnin' boyo. Been runnin' since I meet you, and ain't never stopped. Only thing I couldn't figure is what you was a running like a rabbit from. And I gots ta tell ya Tee, now that I know, it don't impress me none."

John frowned deeply, but didn't answer. Tibs spoke his mind, probably more than any man John had ever met before. But to make a statement like that, he was planning on saying more. All John had to do was listen and wait.

Finally, Tibs sighed. "Tee, when you see the things I seen, you think a lot, and you get to wondering. When you see those camps and all those skeletons in them, some living and most dead, makes you think. What if? What if just one person in that whole damn town had been able to lead them people in the other way, show them it was wrong, makes them see they shouldn't just stand by and watch the evil take a hold like that?"

John looked away, sipping his coffee as he leaned forward slightly. "I have no desire to save the world, if that's what you're getting at."

Tibs continued, undeterred. "What if someone - someone like you, John - had gotten pissed and stood up and said, 'No, it ain't right and I ain't gonna stand by in silence and watch this,' and then demanded the peoples open their eyes and see how wrong it was. Show them how to make a stand, and demanded that the people do what they knows was right."

"Given what I know about Hitler's army, that person would be dead."

"Maybe. And maybe them peoples and their babies might still be alive instead of fed into gas chambers and ovens."

"Unlikely."

"Then you think, why all the great leaders of the world, all they wanna do is kill the peoples they lead, or use them to kill off the people they don't. And then you see a someone - a someone like you - and you starts thinking, 'Say now, that boy would be a fine damned leader if he wasn't so scared of some hard work.' And now I find out, ain't hard work that scares the piss right out of you, it's you. Well, that's just a damn cryin' shame. Such a waste, it's a sin."

John watched him for a long moment, frowning deeply. Once he was sure Tibs had nothing more to say, he looked away, finished the last of his coffee, and stood. "I'm not afraid," he said firmly. "But I have a choice."

"You sure enough do, Chief. And I can tell ya, ain't many men alive that do got choices. But you sitting here all dog faced and blue, like somehow 'cause your daddy wanted it, you can't. Way I sees it, that's you still letting him make your choice. Just 'cause the path he walked in life made him in to something you don't wanna be, don't mean a thing. It ain't the path, it's the man walkin' it."

John sighed. "It's not just wanting to be, it's wanting to walk the path in and of itself."

"Well, I can tell you something else too, Tee. My granddaddy was born a slave on a big, old, grand plantation in Georgia. Worked like a dog his whole damn life. When I was round about your age the Klan come a callin' for my daddy and he done ended up on the wrong end of a noose, swinging from an old Hickory tree. Now you ask yourself this, Tee. If I did all my living based on what I know about my daddy and where his path led him, do you think I'd be sittin' here talking to you right now?"

John stared at him for a long moment, watching as he sipped his coffee. But the man didn't continue. Finally, John sighed. "I'll catch up with you later, Tibs. I think I'm going to take the night off tonight."  
"I think that's a real fine idea." Tibs gave a smile and nod. "You take care of yourself now, Tee."

John nodded in return, then turned away.

***X*X*X***

John lay still, his arm wrapped around the warm body beside him. Her hair was splayed across his chest, one leg over his, pressed naked to his side. He could feel every breath she took, and measured his out just as slow and even. She was dead asleep. His mind was racing.

He had plenty of options. His money wasn't completely exhausted yet; he could go wherever he wanted to go. Another city, if he didn't want to settle here. A train to anywhere. His few measly possessions could fit in the same suitcase they came in. He hadn't really acquired much while he had been here.

But why would he want to leave? He liked this place - at least in theory. The people, the culture, the diversity. The availability, day or night, of booze and sex with a wide assortment of women. It had been a fun and exciting few months. It had been the experience of a lifetime.

He frowned as he considered that. Had been. That was accurate, really. It _had been _fun and exciting. But this place was quickly losing its charm. More than that, it was losing his interest. The thought of living the rest of his life here, of ending up like Tibs - enlightened and comfortable, but ultimately constrained by the day-in and day-out workings of ordinary life - bored him to tears.

Sure, Tibs had big plans for him. He didn't really even know what all they entailed. Some sort of revolution or some such. But that wasn't something Tibs could make happen, and it wasn't something John could do even if he wanted to. He liked this place, but his heart wasn't at home here. It wasn't his purpose in life to live and die for this cause. If it had been, he would've felt much more when he looked at the injustices here. Sure, it bothered him. But it didn't keep him up at night. It didn't make him sit up straighter, the way he did when Tibs talked about those concentration camps.

Now _that _was a cause worth living for. Not the camps themselves; hopefully society on both sides of the war had learned something about allowing and even promoting genocide. But bad men would always do bad things. Even good men would do bad things. There would always be a tyrant t dethrone and a war to fight.

John's thoughts wandered there, for a moment, and then back again. War. He had no fear of dying on a battlefield. In fact, if he'd had to choose, it would probably be the way he would want to die. Of all the ways he could, he certainly didn't want to live to a ripe old age in New Orleans, Louisiana, sailor or no. Maybe Tibs was right. Maybe he was running from the obvious - from the fact that he would just be happier in the Army.

He frowned at that. If he went to enlist, what were the chances they would know he turned down an acceptance to West Point? They wouldn't know. It would be impossible for them to know, and he wouldn't tell them. If he did, they would ask why, and what answer would he give them? I didn't go because my father wanted me to? Tibs was right; that sounded lame. But he never had to tell them. He could be just like every other man who signed on the dotted line.

He frowned deeply at that thought. Just like every other man? He _wasn't _like every other man. He had seen a lot of ordinary men. Maybe it was egotistical of him, but he was not impressed by the thought of being numbered among them. Even more than that, the thought suddenly occurred to him, if he went and enlisted, went off to basic and subjected himself to the whims of a sadistic drill sergeant not unlike his father in so many ways, he would never achieve half the rank that his father did. He would be starting at square one - a private. That thought, more than any other, made him cringe.

He sat up, extracting himself carefully from the sleeping woman beside him, and swung his legs over the side of the bed, leaning forward with his head in his hands. All of this speculation was fascinating, but what was he supposed to do with it? Pack up his bags and go to West Point? That would be entirely too much like caving in to his father's whims. Damned if he would do that. But at the same time, if he didn't, it would only be a matter of time before he died of sheer boredom.

No, he needed a plan. He needed a way to ensure that there was no way for his father to say that he had done this through the decisions he'd made for his son. John needed autonomy. He needed a way to prove this was not about his father. He sat quiet for a few moments, and smiled as the answer hit him. How perfectly obvious. He would simply never let his father know...

***X*X*X***

"May I help you?" the woman behind the registrar's counter asked.

With a confident smile, John approached the counter with paperwork in hand. "My name will be in your records as John Ellsworth, and I'll be starting classes here this semester. I'm here to get things sorted out before classes start next week. This is my first opportunity to visit the campus so housing, scheduling, financial aid, it all needs to be worked out. I was hoping you could point me in the right direction."

"Certainly. Let me just check first to make sure you're on the list."

"Before you do, there's one other thing that's very important." He handed the paperwork over the counter with a smile. "This is a record of my official, legal change of name. I want my new name reflected on _all _school records. There's also been a change in my permanent address. I want _no _mail going to my former address."

He gave her a moment to look over the paperwork. Finally, she looked up at him and smiled. "I'll be happy to get this filed for you. And it won't be at all difficult to change the address we have on file for you. Welcome to West Point, Mr. Smith."


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**PART THREE**

**West Point**

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

It really shouldn't be this difficult. Vivian had watched carefully when the librarian had shown her how to use the microfilm machine. She'd paid attention. She could do this. Taking a deep breath, she ran through the steps again in her head before doing them with her hands. Full reel on this side, film under plate, and over to that side and now a couple spins of the wheel and it should be good to go. She smiled, knowing she had finally done it right.

With a smug sense of satisfaction she turned on the reels. It looked for a moment like it would work, then the film somehow got loose from the plate and, instead of winding around the empty reel it shot out at least three feet before landing nosily on the floor.

She gasped, but for a few seconds, shock kept her from reacting as film began to pile up at her feet. The ratcheting sound of the film spinning out of control was embarrassingly loud in the quiet library, but it wasn't able to cover her surprised outburst. "Damn it!"

Heads turned. People at all the nearby tables in the public library were staring. Off! How could she turn the damn thing _off_! Vivian could feel her cheeks burning bright red as she tried in vain to find the proper way to stop the asinine machine. When none of the knobs seemed to work, desperation and horror reduced her to smacking at it in the vague hope that that would somehow help.

Suddenly, it seemed to shut itself off. That probably had something to do with the hand on the dial in front of her. Whoever it was - it immediately looked to her like a male hand - he'd lean completely over top of her to get to the dial. But as the film stopped, he moved more to the side and let out an audible breath with a quiet chuckle, still holding the dial as if it might start spinning again if he let go.

A rich, deep voice rumbled quietly in her ear. "Wow. I don't think I've ever seen it do that before."

Oh God, if he looked half as good as he sounded, she might actually die of embarrassment. For a second, she closed her eyes, wondering if the ground would just swallow her up. No such luck. There was still a strange man leaning over her and all hopes of passing world history at her feet. She put her hand over her eyes.

"Oh, my God. I killed the new microfilm machine. They're going to ban me from the library until I can pay for a new one."

"Just relax." The deep voice was perfectly calm, quiet and gentle if a bit commanding. It made her want to comply, even if relaxing was entirely out of the question.

The hand not holding the dial pointed in front of her to the reel that had gone flying off in the direction of one of the tables. "Go grab that reel before someone steps on it. And be careful not to bend the film. Only touch the sides of it if you can help it. Or use your shirt over your hand."

Even though his voice was at the required library whisper, it seemed to ring in her ears. As she retrieved the reel from under the desk, she finally got a look at him. Great, making and idiot of herself in front of a room full of people and failing world history in one fell swoop wasn't enough for one day. No, she had to do it in front of someone who as good looking as this man. The uniform was from West Point. She knew enough about the Cadets to know the colors marked him as a junior, or cows as the other cadets called them. His clear blue eyes fixed on hers as he spoke to her again.

"Set it down on the chair." He nodded at the pile of microfilm on the floor. "And help me keep it untangled while we feed it back onto the reel."

His directions were calm as he finally took his hand off the machine and carefully removed a handkerchief from his pocket. She did as he asked - no, as he told - her to do. How could he be so relaxed? He was calm and steady, as if he often went around to local libraries and cleaned up microfilm disasters. She could still feel the eyes on her and hear the stifled giggles. But if this situation - or the stares from the people around them - were bothering him in the least, he didn't show it. He was focused entirely on the film as he grabbed the dial again and slowly turned it just a notch.

The reel began turning slowly, and he passed the film through the handkerchief before it wound back onto the reel, cleaning off the dirt from the floor. It took several slow, meticulous minutes of speeding up and slowing down and carefully turning and twisting the film, but finally it was all wound back onto the reel. He took the other reel from her hands and carefully set it back on the machine.

Curious, she studied him, certain that he was to engrossed in what he was doing to notice her staring. He was tall and handsome. He had great eyes, with an intense focus that he was right now using to help her. She could feel herself smile. It was a smile that grew as more and more of the film was safely put back on the reel. She felt his warm hand brush hers. It tingled, like a charge of static electricity. Her relief was plain as he put the reel back where it belonged.

"Where did you learn to do that?" she asked.

He chuckled. "You're not the first one to have that mishap Miss...?"

A bit of the flush returned to her cheeks, as she give a slightly startled smile. "Oh, I'm Vivian Daily, but you can call me Viv."

She had been so busy staring at him, she had forgotten her manners, yet again. At least she remembered to offer her hand to him now. When shook it, his grip was firm and warm. It seemed to send another small tingle along her arm. His head tipped down in a nod that was almost a bow, and he smiled confidently at her.

"Rod Decker. It's a pleasure to meet you."

*X*X*X*

As roommates went, Tom "Pops" Cane was alright in Hannibal's mind. Not the life of the party by any means, but he was also not the type to get wound up over much. At twenty-four he was older than the rest of them and he had seen combat in the Pacific theater. Pops had come to West Point to get the education the Army said he needed to lead the men he fought side by side with in foxholes and bunkers.

His resume must have been damn pretty.

He was the rock steady, solid type that would do well in the middle ranks, but not driven enough to ever advance past major. If Hannibal had to hazard a guess, that suited Pops just fine. Hannibal had to respect the fact that Pops wanted to be in the field with the men; commanding from a desk seemed to hold no appeal for him either. But, that being the case, career options were limited.

In his third year here, Pops was the only person Hannibal had never heard a single complaint from, not once, not ever. Which may well have been why, when he stomped into their dorm room, it caught Hannibal's attention. There was a dull thud as Pops dumped his books on his desk, then threw himself into the uncomfortable straight-back desk chair with a muttered, "Son of a bitch."

Lying on his back and holding his psychology textbook in the air over his head, Hannibal turned to glance at his roommate, one eyebrow raised. "You okay there, Pops?"

Casual as it sounded, he was more than a little interested in finding out what had finally managed to get under that man's skin. Plus, it was bound to be more interesting than studying.

"Three solid days of nonstop studying and I still came in second."

Pops shook his head and pushed his hat off, dropping it on top of the books. Amused, Hannibal set the book on his chest and tucked one arm comfortably under his head, studying Pops with open curiosity. "Who came in first?"

"I ate, slept, and dreamt that textbook," Pops continued, ignoring him. "I was sure _this _time I would be top of the class."

"You usually don't have a problem being top of your class." Yet another thing Hannibal admired him for. He was a challenge. "What is it about that class that makes it so hard?"

"Rod Decker is what makes that class so damn hard."

Hannibal paused for a moment, amused by the concept of Decker as a challenge. He'd met the man, briefly. A year his junior and dead set to follow every rule to the letter, Hannibal had found nothing interesting about him that warranted a second meeting.

"That boy is a one man curve wrecking machine. Every single test, every paper it's the same old song and dance. No matter how much studying anyone does, Rod blows everyone else out of the water."

"I didn't know he was that good," Hannibal mused.

Pops leaned back and draped his arm over the back of his chair. "I'm just glad he's not in my history class. That class is already hard enough."

Still amused, Hannibal was drifting back over the things he knew about Rod Decker. Really, the man had seemed incredibly boring. "He wasn't a bad student when I had him in my calculus class last year, but he never set the curve."

"That's because _you're_ the curve killer in every class you take," Pops said with a glare. "And I hate to admit it, but I take more than a little pleasure in knowing Decker's been in my shoes."

"Not every class," Hannibal answered dismissively.

"Correction," Pops replied. "You're only the star pupil when you give a damn."

Hannibal smiled. The truth was, with more than a few of them it was simply hard to give a damn. Really, it depended on the instructor far more than the material. If there was a challenge, an opportunity to excel, he damn well set the curve. But if he couldn't find an ounce of respect for the professor, which had happened on more than one occasion, it was sometimes all he could do just to keep from failing out. He'd lost his four-point-oh in the first year for that very reason, even though he could've aced that damn American history class in his sleep.

"Decker _always_ gives a damn. The man probably had an Army green bedroom and slept in little general pajamas until he got here. Who knows, maybe he still does."

Hannibal's smile remained as he lifted his book above him again and went back to reading.

"You could probably give him a run for his money, you know. If you ever decided to care."

"Maybe." He was damn sure he could. It was just a matter if he cared enough to. "Though I'd hate to dash all his hopes of a perfect reputation."

"Oh, like hell you'd hate that. You'd love it. And we both know it."

Hannibal let his grin be his reply. Maybe he _would_ make an effort, and give Rod Decker a run for his money. He'd not had any particular interest in him thus far, but anyone that driven was fun to toy with. Getting to play with someone who was wound up so tight and so damn serious could be amusing. Hannibal hid his smirk as he fully considered that, then turned onto his stomach, leaning over the book to finish skimming the rest of the chapter.


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

Every cadet ate together in the cafeteria; it was the West Point way. After the meal was over those cadets who had no classes coming up would splinter off into groups. Studying, laughing, talking and doing whatever else it was that groups of young men were supposed to do when they got together. Rod didn't much care did what they did. He would clear his table per protocol and then return to his seat, nodding to the cadets who remained at the table. Once seated, he would study until it was time for his next class. Socializing came second to his coursework.

Besides, he preferred not to get involved with the petty drama and infighting that could quickly arise between groups of young men all with the same goal in mind; to be the best. He was here to learn and succeed by fully engaging in all of his classes and gaining every ounce of knowledge and skill he could. At the end of four years, he would be expected to know how to command men, lead them into battle. He took that responsibility very seriously.

For the most part, the others left him alone. That suited him just fine. In fact, it was just the way he preferred it. Which was why he was surprised to see Smith's shadow come over the book he was studying. He was even more surprised when, with a casual, "Hey, Rod," Smith sat down across from him at the table without waiting for an invitation.

It wasn't the fact that he didn't seem to mind that he was uninvited and, frankly, unwelcome. It was the fact that Smith had any interest in talking to him to begin with. This was normally the time when Smith strutted around from table to table, basking in the adoration of all the other cadets who seemed to be enthralled by him. He sure as hell wasn't going to get that here.

Rod couldn't understand what it was that Smith had that made people like him. More than that, whatever it was seemed to inspire people and make them want to be like him. Nothing was serious, or sacred, or even seemed to matter to Smith. Life was just a game to him. And somehow, nothing he did ever seemed to fail. Somehow he always came out on top and grinning like a fool.

He had a way of making even the most debased punishments seem cool. People shot him approving smiles instead of ignoring him the way they should. Even the ridiculous nickname that he now insisted on using had been a lesson in humility gone awry. An instructor, less than impressed with Smith's cocky attitude and steadfast refusal to take anything seriously had pulled him in front of the entire company to dress him down. He told Smith if he was going to be a stubborn and ignorant as a mule, then he would call him "Hannibal", just like the school's mascot pack mule. Instead of having the common sense to look offended, Smith had grinned. He later claimed that stubborn and ignorant were the earmarks of a great military mind. All the incident had done was to propel him to near legend in the cadet ranks.

Smith knew where Rod stood. If they were talking, it was because Smith wanted something. Whatever it was, Rod had neither the time nor the inclination to give it to him. Still, there were social protocols and rules to be followed. Looking over the table, he offered a neutral reply.

"John." There was no way he was going to use that idiotic nickname.

"I heard your European history exam went well."

"Yes, it did."

Rod didn't bother returning the smile. It wasn't necessary and there was nothing to be gained by it. Smith didn't care about his own grades, so why the sudden interest in his? Smith wasn't the type to look for tutoring.

"You set the curve."

"Yes. So?"

"From what I hear, you set it pretty high."

"You may not have noticed, but I've been setting the curve for three years."

"You're right. I didn't notice."

"So what makes you notice now?"

Smith was still wearing that same cocky, stupid grin. "Just been hearing people talk. You know, the real competitive types around here might start gunning for you if you keep that up."

Smith made that proclamation as if he was offering up some profound insight. But everybody knew the way this system worked. Rod gave him a cold smile.

"Anyone who wants to best me is welcome to try. Completion and challenge are _why_ people come to school like this, John."

Now it was Rod's turn to offer profound insight. Did Smith really not get it? He was at the top of his classes because he worked for it and he wanted it. Except for people like Smith, who thought charm and charisma were more valuable than hard work and dedication, most everyone here felt that way.

"Really? I thought it was just to get a jump start on a stunning military career."

There was contempt in the way he said that. How on earth did the man survive here with so little respect for the institution?

"I've been considering taking European history next semester. Tell me, how hard did you have to study for that test?"

There was something in his tone that Rod found downright distasteful. It was more than just Smith's usual glib banter. The man was baiting him. He just couldn't figure out exactly how or _why_ he would bother trying that.

"As hard as I needed to, same as always."

"That doesn't really answer the question though, does it?" Smith was watching him with an amused grin. He was definitely baiting him. And now came the punch line. "I'm just wondering, because I keep a pretty busy schedule. I couldn't possibly spare more than an hour or so a night. And I do remember taking Samenson's class, it took me almost threewhole hours of studying to prepare for that final."

Several heads turned when Decker laughed out loud. The sound of his laughter was deep and distinctive to say the least and it was rarely heard. But the idea of Smith setting the curve of Samenson's grueling final exam, with only three hours studying time was downright laughable. Decker himself had studied for over a month to grab top marks. Samenson's class was known to all of the cadets as the hardest in the school.

"That ought to work out just fine for you, then."

Letting his laughter fade, but still amused, Decker turned his attention back to his book now that Smith's little joke was done. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Smith grinning as he stood up.

"Well, if you ever need any help studying, let me know."

The idea was ludicrous. In a school like this, there was no such thing as 'study partners.' It was said just for a reaction. He wasn't going to give Smith a reaction. He didn't even bother to look up.

"Thanks, but I'm sure I'll be fine."

"See you around, Rod."

With a casual wave, Smith turned and simply walked away, smiling smugly to himself.

*X*X*X*

Pops could hear the giggling even through the door. As he opened it, he was greeted by a mess of giggling, squirming blankets. "John!"

His head poked up, out of the blankets, grinning widely, hair every which way, eyes full of mischief. "Oh, hiya Pops."

A second head made its way out of the blankets - an equally smiling brunette. Pops regarded her only briefly before he looked back at Hannibal. "Are you trying to get us kicked out of school?"

Hannibal's smile remained, perfectly innocent. "Why would you think that?"

Pops pointed a finger at the brunette. "Exhibit A."

Hannibal chuckled, turned and gave her a light kiss, and lifted the blanket enough to look inside. "You should probably get dressed."

The girl pouted, but promptly disappeared under the blanket again. From the amount of movement, Pops could only guess she was trying to get redressed under there. Warily eyeing the blankets, Pops moved further into the room as Hannibal relaxed on his back with his arms tucked under his head.

"Don't worry about getting caught," he said casually. "Patrick has a nice, full bottle of hard-to-find whiskey - his favorite brand - to keep him looking the other way."

Pops' eyes widened. "You _bribed _the hall monitor?"

Hannibal shrugged, then his smile widened. "Worst case scenario, you should _see_ her shimmy down a drainpipe. It's inspiring, really."

Pops frowned deeply. "Don't you have better things you could be doing with your time? Like studying, maybe?"

"I did some studying. I needed a break."

Hannibal was beaming that innocent and carefree smile. Finally dressed, the girl squirmed out from underneath the blanket. Hannibal caught her just before she stood and pulled her in for a deep, lingering kiss that Pops had no choice but to wait patiently for. Jaw clenched, he cleared his throat, hoping to disrupt the display. But that hardly seemed to do any good.

"God damn it, John. Really?"

Ignoring Pops, Hannibal let the kiss come to a natural close, then smiled at the girl. "I'll see you Tuesday."

She smiled back, then stood up, casting a sly grin at Pops on her way to the door, which she finally shut behind her. Hannibal remained where he was, sprawled comfortably half-under the blanket, watching Pops with a look of amusement.

Pops glared back. "Next Tuesday? That meeting had better be somewhere other than here."

"Relax." It was that playful, carefree, almost patronizing tone Hannibal used more often than any other. "We're going to the fair. Nowhere near here."

"The fair?"

As if he didn't have a care in the world, Hannibal stretched and finally sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

"You do realize that the IOCT is on Wednesday, right?"

"Oh yeah... That _is _coming up, isn't it?"

Pops stared. Could he have really just forgotten about that? No, that was unlikely. He just didn't give a damn. Like he didn't give a damn about anything.

"Is that really all you have to say about it?" Pops snapped at him. "You _do _know how serious this is, right? Passing that test is not optional!"

"Neither you nor I are going to have any difficulty passing that test," Hannibal said with a roll of his eyes. "Beyond that, it's bragging rights."

"Oh, and that means nothing to you. Throwing the curve so bad on a science test that the next best grade is a B-minus, that's worth bragging about. But running an obstacle course _designed _to be competitive for the sake of bragging rights, that's no big deal."

Hannibal glanced around, fumbling through the blankets, looking for his clothes, not answering.

"You know, I used to believe that shit about how you worked at the classes that were really hard because they were a real challenge. But that's not quite right, is it? Because if it's too much of a challenge, you'd rather go to the fair than prepare for it."

Hannibal finally found his boxers, and pulled them on, glancing over at the clock. "Damn, I have a trigonometry exam in thirty minutes."

Pops grit his teeth, well aware that he was being ignored. It was quickly turning his frustration to anger. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Hannibal glanced at him with an innocent, curious expression. "What do you mean?"

Pops stared. Was he trying to be difficult? Did he not realize how he was acting? Was everything really that simple for him? With a sigh, Pops collapsed onto his bed, rubbing his temples. "Holy shit, John, how do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"You act like you don't have a care in the world."

Hannibal walked to the closet, rummaging for a clean uniform, and turned to toss pants and toss onto the unmade bed.

"You know, some of us have to work really damn hard at this."

Hannibal shot a curious, almost concerned look at Pops. "What's gotten you all worked up, anyways?"

"You!" Pops snapped, glad that he finally recognized that.

"What did I do?"

He sounded so innocent, it was as if the accusation was coming out of left field. Pops rubbed his forehead again. It was no great surprise that Hannibal didn't get it. He was acting no different than he always did. But just now, it was starting to really get under Pops' skin.

"What did you say to Decker?"

"Decker?" That was apparently both surprising and laughable. "Why? What did he do this time?"

"It's not just what he did. It's what _you _did. Because whatever it was, he's on an absolute tear."

"Really?" Hannibal sounded entirely too amused by that. "Oh, he _is _going to be fun."

Pops groaned. "No, Hannibal, it's _not _fun. Why do you gotta do this to us?"

"Do what to you?"

"You antagonize him and it's all the rest of us who suffer."

Hannibal laughed. "And just whose idea was this so called antagonizing to _begin _with?" he asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed to put his slacks on.

"That was _before _this week's world history test."

"He did well again, I take it?"

"Well?" Understatement of the year. "I got a 78! I'll be lucky to pull a B in that class!"

"Well, what happened? I saw you studying for it."

"You know how many he missed? On a two hundred point names and dates test?"

Rhetorical question. Hannibal answered anyways. "No."

"Two. He missed _two_! That sets the curve at a 99, damn it! Half the class _failed_!"

Hannibal shrugged. "So what do you want me to do about it?"

"Other guys in his other classes say the same thing. He wasn't this bad before you started talking to him."

"So?"

"So lay off! It might be fun for you, but you're making life a living hell for the rest of us."

"Well, there's not much I can do about that now."

For some reason, he didn't sound too upset about that. Maybe because he never got upset about anything, no matter what it was. Leaning down to tie his shoes, he glanced up at Pops with a grin.

"Once you pull the cat's tail, he doesn't forget."

"You can stop pulling it anytime."

John smiled, standing up and grabbing his shirt off the bed. "Yeah, I could. But that would be an awful lot like letting him win. And I just can't give up that easy."


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

The small group of cadets in various stages of dress were gathered around the wood bench in the locker room. The conversation had drifted from which of them was responsible for the winning point to who was the best baseball player and, finally, to the topic it always seemed to turn to in the end.

"She's built like a board, man."

"No, she's not."

"There's not a curve on her."

"You would know."

"Damn right I would."

The air was thick with steam, the stale smell of sweat, and the sound of male voices. Hannibal watched all of them with a knowing smile. They all talked big – who had the best looking girlfriend and who had their eyes set on which girl from the surrounding neighborhoods. But the fact of the matter was, most of these guys were entirely too wrapped up in their studies and training to do much about their insanely overactive libidos. Most of these guy's had never even kissed a girl let alone actually had sex. He would bet his life he was the most experienced man in the room.

Hannibal might have been just as much a part of that forced celibacy if not for the fact that it took him an hour to do what it took most of them three. The only time he spent as long as they did on any one topic was the physical training. When he finished his run, if he still had time, he either kept going, or moved on to other areas. But he never quit early.

Still, that left him a great deal of time for other pursuits. While classes and training took up a fair amount of time, homework - even papers - were a breeze. And he'd never been one to sit quietly and amuse himself when there was adventure to be had. This school alone encompassed more people than the entire town he'd grown up in - an almost exclusively male presence.

_Almost _exclusively.

While the boys around him compared the girlfriends they'd left behind, and all but openly fantasized about those they'd met at the library or walking to and from town. Hannibal kept his comments to himself, only smirked as he changed slowly, listening with amusement.

"Yo, Smith! Incoming!"

It had to be Brown, with that flat Brooklyn accent. No one else he knew talked like that. He looked over just in time to catch the towel headed straight for him.

"Whatcha' so quiet for?" Brown asked. "You gonna try and tells us you don't watch the girls?"

Hannibal could feel the eyes and ears of all the men in the steam-filled room on him. He was in the spotlight and it didn't bother him one bit. He knew how to handle people—individually, in a crowd, it didn't matter. He could have them eating out of his hand. It was just a matter of knowing his audience and what they expected and respected. Whatever it was, he would excel in it. He always had.

Radiating confidence he gave his best grin and raised an eyebrow at Brown. "I don't need to watch. I prefer to touch."

To punctuate his statement, amidst the laughter and catcalls that followed, Hannibal threw the towel back, rolled in a ball, with enough force that it might have been counted as a weapon if he hadn't thrown it right into Brown's hands.

"Who've you been touching here?" Joel Carson's deep, dirty laugh brought his attention back to the group. "Or are we talking about self exploration?"

Another round of laughter. The response was exactly what Hannibal had expected. The only one not joining in was Decker. His back was to the group, but Hannibal could almost feel the disapproval emanating from him. That boy's ability to smile and relax had either been surgically removed, or he had been born without it.

Hannibal answered the comment with a knowing grin. "Sorry, boys. I don't think she'd appreciate the publicity. But I'll put in a good word for all of you."

"Aw, come on, what good is that supposed to do?"

He smirked. "Well, it might help next time you get sent to the dean's office."

"No way!"

There was an sudden predicable increase in the volume of laughter and shouts. Without giving a name, he'd narrowed it down to three - the women who worked in the office. It would be amusing to let them bicker and squabble over the specifics.

"Which one?"

"Aww, no way, Hannibal. You're just playing."

"Yeah, anyone who has ever actually done it could tell that."

"Which of course means Darryl is clueless."

"I got a girl! She lives in Canada."

"Bullshit!"

"Aww, hell. I bet he's been seeing his hand."

"Damn, Smith, is it the brunette with the big tits?"

"No, bet he went for the blond."

Still grinning, Hannibal turned back to his locker with a chuckle. Damn, that had just been too easy. He listened with amusement to the conversations around him as he pulled the towel from around his neck and draped it over the metal door. He grabbed his comb and ran it through his hair, watching them in the mirror but not adding anything more to the conversation.

"Come on, Hannibal, give me her name. Or maybe just a description?"

"Forget it. He doesn't have a name 'cause he's full of shit."

"I got ten bucks on the blonde."

"Where are _you _gonna come up with ten bucks?"

With the usual amount of shoving and shouting, the bulk of the cadets finished dressing and made their way out of the locker room. Most of them needed to all the time they could spare to study. Hannibal was well aware of the exams—two of them—he had tomorrow. But he'd deal with that later.

The laughter slowly died down as they left in groups and pairs until the locker room was finally silent. If it wasn't for the fact he could see Decker sitting on the now-empty bench to put on his socks and boots, he would have sworn he was alone.

Hannibal glanced briefly over his shoulder at him, a courtesy to let him know that he was being watched. "You were awful quiet through all that."

Decker's eyes were fixed on his task. How did he manage to put his socks on and still keep his back board straight? If Hannibal had to guess it had something to do with a very large stick in a very uncomfortable place.

"Some things aren't meant to be discussed in a locker room," he said simply.

Hannibal smirked. He wouldn't disagree with that statement, at least not in theory. It didn't keep him from seeing the big, red button and having that dying need to push it. Decker had all the charm of a two-by-four and about the personality, too. Hannibal didn't imagine he saw much action. But if past experience was any indication, he wouldn't get a rise out of the guy no matter what he said or did. That didn't mean it wasn't fun to try.

"Far better to have so-called locker room talk over a nice dinner."

Decker glanced up and glared at him briefly before reaching for his other boot. "Did you have many nice dinners with Ms. Thomas?"

Hannibal chuckled. It was clear he knew that john hadn't been lying about the woman in the dean's office. He even knew which woman it was.

"Not many, no. She prefers quick dinners that don't detract from the rest of the evening."

"Quick isn't something most women are looking for."

"And you know this from your vast wealth of personal experience?"

Hannibal set the comb back inside his locker and grabbed his brown leather jacket. The locker door rattled loudly as he shut it and slipped the lock through the handle. He was done for the day, and he was getting the hell off this campus.

Standing and reaching for his own jacket. Decker didn't say a word, he just raised his eye brow and gave a smirk. Hannibal paused. There was no doubt now that Decker was smirking. That was… amusing. "Don't tell me you're working in a little bit of action between the pages of those textbooks you insist on actually reading, word by word."

Decker smirk didn't fall. "I told you. I don't discuss women in locker rooms."

Hannibal laughed as he rolled his eyes. "Spare me. Besides, the only set of nice legs you've come within a hundred yards of since you _got _here is that study partner of yours. And don't take this personally, but she's _way _out of your league."  
"We'll see," Decker answered, still smirking as he walked past Hannibal and towards the door.

*X*X*X*

Vivian's back hit the wood siding of her house with enough force to knock the wind out of her lungs, and Decker's hands were immediately sliding up under her shirt. He groped her breasts, roughly, his mouth covering hers, penetrating deeply. Five minutes might be all they had before the headlights in the driveway signaled the warning that her parents were home. Too dangerous to go into the house. Funny that the backyard was actually safer.

"This is crazy Rod. My parents..."

Her words trailed off as he dropped his head to her neck, teeth sinking into her flesh to hold her still. He'd discovered about three weeks ago that she liked that.

He ignored her words. They weren't a real protest anyways. They both knew that was why he wasn't taking her inside to a much more comfortable location. Comfort was not foremost on his mind right now. He wanted her. Needed her. And from the frantic pounding of her heart against his hand, she needed him just as badly.

There was nowhere for her to go; she was trapped between his hard body and the wall behind her. He brought his hands down her sides quickly, brushing skin on the way down, and bent just enough to hook his fingers under the hem of her skirt, pushing it up until he was holding her hips, beneath it.  
Her hands worked at his belt, delicate but hurried. "My parents will kill me if they find out I've been seeing you like this."

"Well, then we'll just have to make sure they don't find out."

She slid her hand down the front of his pants, wrapping her fingers carefully around his shaft. Maneuvering his hands under her panties, he shoved them down with little finesse. As soon as they were out of his way, he lifted her against the wall, guiding her legs around him. He was inside of her in one smooth, forceful thrust that made her gasp.

His mouth covered hers again, penetrating her deeply, rocking her entire body to his rhythm until he felt her body tense, her inner muscles clamping down around him. He groaned into her mouth as he felt his eyes roll back, the pleasure flooding through him until finally, it overtook every part of his brain that was capable of thought or feeling. For one blissful moment, the only thing that existed in the entire world was the heat of her body, the feel of her under his hands, the taste of her chocolate-cake-kiss on his tongue. The bakery had been a good choice for an after-studying stop for food.

Breathing hard, she leaned her forehead against his, still clinging to him. Taking a precious moment to catch her breath, she moved her head to whisper in his ear, "I love you."

He laughed quietly, and braced himself for a moment on the wall behind her as he used one hand to try and put his pants back together. It would've been easier with two hands. But he really needed the one to keep him upright.

"What time is your test tomorrow?"

Finally, he had no choice but to employ both hands. He turned and put his shoulder to the wall as he fastened his slacks. Straightening her skirt, she then bent at the knees to pick her books from where they had fallen.

"Nine-thirty, second bell. Why?"

As she stood again, he dropped his head to kiss her cheek. His arm around her waist pushed her back up against the wall - gentler this time. He was just trying to get her attention. "Then I'll meet you for lunch. You can let me know how you did."

"Sounds great."

He was acutely aware of the car coming down the road. "See you then."

With one last, quick kiss, she turned and bounded up the back porch steps.

"Hey," he called after her. She paused at the door and he looked up at her, not moving off of the wall. He smiled as he put his hands in his pockets, leaning comfortably, in no great hurry to leave. "Good luck."

"I don't need luck," she answered confidently. "I've got you."

He smiled as he watched her disappear inside. Out of his league, indeed.


	18. Chapter Seventeen

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

The indoor obstacle course test, or IOCT, was at once the most dreaded physical test in the academy and one of the quickest ways to earn respect. It was important, but the grade was far more concerning to Hannibal than the grade on any other test for one simple reason: it was hard. He'd learned his lesson the first time through, when he'd foolishly assumed he was in good shape. One time was all it took for him to determine that this test, more than any test with paper and pencil, had the potential to kick his ass.

Hannibal was finally starting to tire when he noticed the eyes on him. He'd been running the course for over an hour, looping it over and over just as soon as he caught his breath from the last time, and it was really beginning to take its toll. His time was getting longer and longer as his muscles weakened and the exhaustion set in. He was glad for the interruption, even when he saw who it was.

"You're slow," Decker called, leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest.

Barely able to breathe, Hannibal didn't have the energy to call back to him. Grabbing his bottle of water and downing the rest of it as quickly as he could, he leaned forward on the rail surrounding the track and stared down at him. He wasn't embarrassed by how hard he was breathing. They _all _heaved and wheezed at the end of this course.

"And you're not supposed to be drinking up there," Decker continued, stepping further into the gym. "But you're not supposed to be here at all, so I guess that really doesn't matter to you."

_Neither are you..._ Still no breath to answer.

Decker wasn't telling him anything he didn't already know. He'd had to bribe the night watch for access to the gym. Maybe, in a way, extra practice when the gym was supposed to be closed was "cheating." If it was, it was the only kind of cheating Hannibal could rightly be accused of. "Rightly" because the rumors of how Hannibal passed his hardest classes with flying colors had been flying since the very beginning, unproven. There was nothing to prove; he didn't cheat.

This, he did not consider cheating. It was breaking a rule to come here after hours, but one way or another, he was still the one to take the test, without help, and it measured his physical ability. People studied for four or five days straight for their pen and paper tests, and were praised for it. How could he rightly be criticized for extra "studying"?

Decker's sneakers fell softly on the wood floor as he wandered to the starting point and unzipped his jacket, tossing it aside.

"You got a watch?"

Still too winded to speak, Hannibal raised the stopwatch, eyes on Decker as he stretched a few different ways, very casually, then readied himself on the starting line. Hannibal kept his eyes on him, but said nothing. He just took another drink.

The moment he broke, Hannibal hit the timer. The parallel bar walk, vault, and dive roll that started the test were probably the easiest if only because they were first. It wasn't hard yet to take a breath, and the body still hadn't really realized what was being done to it. By the time Decker reached the shelf, pulling himself up to the six foot ledge, Hannibal knew he was starting to feel it. But he didn't slow. He flew across the horizontal bars, bounding from one support to the next, holding onto nothing in between. Then he was back on the floor, running to the suspended tire and flying through it, feet first.

Hannibal took another drink and glanced down at the stopwatch. He was making exceptionally good time. A low A was 2:38. At this rate, he would make it without difficulty. Hannibal had never noticed it before, but Decker seemed exceptionally well prepared for this test. Even the eight foot wall - which should've given Hannibal the advantage, given his height - was no problem. He rushed it at full speed, and was up and over still using the momentum from his jump.

When he climbed the rope to the track and started his first lap at a full sprint, he was clearly winded. The final half lap was where he - and everyone else - flagged. By the time he crossed the finish line and collapsed on his hands and knees, heaving breaths and shaking, he didn't give a damn what his time was. Hannibal did. 2:17. That was a full twelve seconds better than Hannibal's best time. For that matter, it was eight seconds under his goal.

Damn it.

Decker turned onto his back, knees bent, chest heaving. Hannibal sat down beside him, back to the wall, his own breathing finally beginning to even out. It was a full minute before Decker finally looked at him expectantly.

"2:17," Hannibal said.

Decker turned his gaze back to the ceiling, satisfied with that. Hannibal held out the bottle of water to him, but he shook his head. It had nothing to do with social graces, or lack thereof. The trash receptacles at the finish line were there for a reason. The strenuous course could make anyone lose the contents of their stomach if they weren't careful.

Finally, Decker sat up, took the water bottle as it was offered a second time, and scooted across the track to sit with his back to the bars. "You have any idea how much trouble you'd get into if you got caught doing this?" Decker asked.

"Doing what? Practicing?"

"Breaking in here after hours."  
"I didn't break in."

"I know. You bribed the guard. Which is just one more thing that could get you expelled."

Hannibal studied him for a moment, curiously. "If you're going to blackmail me, at least pick something more... creative."

"Blackmail you? What the hell for?" Decker took a drink. "If anything, I'd have you expelled. Blackmail takes way too much work."

Hannibal chuckled. He'd known as much, just by watching Decker as much as he had. Blackmail just wasn't his style. It was too underhanded.

"Good to know what I can expect," Hannibal said, managing his first deep, full breath since he'd finished the test more than five minutes ago.

"There's no point in trying to get you expelled," Decker said. It was flat statement, head tilted back he spoke up at the ceiling. "I don't have to do a thing. You are your own worst enemy."

Hannibal chuckled. "You're not the first man to tell me that."

"Because it's true." Decker glanced at him. "People like you - people who think rules are for others - always end up outmaneuvering themselves in the end."

"A society without rules is anarchy." Hannibal smiled comfortably, not challenging. "But a society with too many is tyranny."

Decker smiled back, grimly. "And an army is a collection of armed men obliged to obey one man. Every change in the rules which impairs the principle weakens the army." He nodded at Hannibal. "Sherman was right. The rules in the Army keep it running. It's on us, the men who will lead that army to both follow and set the rules. Lead by example and not be tempted into tyranny."

Hannibal smiled. "I have every intention of leading by example. It's impossible for me to respect a man who can't."

"Leading by example means playing by the same rules as everyone else, Smith. And that's something that's too boring for you."

"It means carefully evaluating which rules were made to be broken. And holding my men to the same standard."

"That way of doing things leads to anarchy and chaos, you know. Two things that _will _get you and your men killed in the field. If you make it that far."

"You sound like my father." Hannibal relaxed back against the wall with a sigh that was almost wistful. "Except he never said things like 'if'."

"Your father was right. Rules and order and adherence to them is critical. Not just in the Army."

"It's really just that black and white to you, isn't it?"

"He who reigns within himself and rules passions, desires, and fears is more than a king."

"Ah, yes. Milton?"

"Yes."

"The problem is, Rod, he who follows every rule is very easy to clone."

"Clone?"

"I'm not here to make general someday, Rod. That's _far _too low an aspiration, as far as I'm concerned. The truly great men of the world aren't known by their rank. Constantine, Alexander, Leonidas... Even Hitler, though he used his power for things it should never be used for."

"Not one of those men would have tolerated a soldier who didn't follow his rules."

Hannibal shrugged.

"That's your problem, Smith. You have no issues with dictatorship, so long as you're the dictator."

"Oh, I don't believe any one of those men did it alone. When Alexander tried, it drove his troops to mutiny."

"My point exactly. Without a common set of rules to follow, there _is _mutiny. And chaos."

"Those great men were the source of the idea and the will behind it. But the armies who followed them were their pride and glory, in and of themselves."

"So they didn't think they were better than their men? That they were not somehow entitled to special privileges and advantages?"

"Whether they did or not is reflected in the outcome, I think."

Do you think they would have used money and booze to bribe someone into giving them an advantage in training?"

"They might. If it was advantageous to their unit." Hannibal smiled. "And any one of their men might, for the very same reason."

"This isn't for your unit. It's for your own personal pride. If you cared about your unit, they would be here with you."

Hannibal shrugged. "This isn't where my unit struggles, it's where I do. My being here is very much a show of my dedication to them."

Rod laughed. "Bullshit."

"I couldn't care less about getting the top marks on this test. I know it's not where I excel and I'll never beat your time. I'm not willing to make the sacrifices it would take to even try. But I'm also not going to drag down my team. As far as my personal pride?" Hannibal smirked. "I have nothing left to prove."

"Spin it however you need to, Smith. The fact is you are here, risking expulsion, breaking the rules that everyone else follows for no other reason than because you want to. That isn't the mark of a great leader."

"And _you_, Rod, have an uncanny way of hearing exactly what you want to hear when I speak. It's fascinating, really."

Rod took a long drink then set the bottle down, then studied Hannibal as he calmly folded his arms over his knees. "Discipline, structure, rules - that's the key being a good soldier and a great leader. We all train the same way, we all have the same classes for a reason. Those who can rise to the top will have earned that spot. And every man under him will _know_ that. Twisting the rules, redefining them because you're clever is an insult to every man who understands loyalty to the corps and its ideals. This may be a game to you, but if you really want to be something, learn the rules of the game and then play it better than anyone else."

Hannibal paused briefly, tipping his head as he considered that. "See, you're still thinking that men are unified by _rules_. And I think you're dead wrong."

"Oh?"

"I believe that men are unified first by loyalty. Rules are little more than a formality."

"And that's the sort of thinking that will have you up on a court martial."

Hannibal smiled.

"And not just you, either. You and any man who thinks duty to the Army is second to loyalty to a lone man."

"That's one way to look at it. But it's also the sort of thinking that made three hundred Greeks follow Leonidas to their deaths as Thermopylae... and hold off an entire Persian army."

"Yes, and then there were an awful lot of dead soldiers."

Hannibal laughed. "Far more on the Persian side than the Greeks."

"Yes. And Leonidas got his name in the history books. After he got everyone killed."

"What were they supposed to do? Settle their differences with diplomacy?"

Decker scowled at him. "Men are meant to die. It's what soldiers do. But if you don't win, it's a waste."

Hannibal laughed again, loud and long. "You have got to be the first military man I have _ever _heard call Thermopylae a waste."

"Like I said, he got his name in a history book. But in the end, he lost."

"See, Decker, this is why you will never be great. You can't get out of the box you've been put in."

"Box?"

"It's such narrow thinking - ideas that have been beaten into you. Never question, never challenge, never think for yourself. You have the makings of an excellent sergeant."

Decker scoffed. "And you have the makings for an interesting court martial."

Smile still on his face, Hannibal sat forward and folded his hands patiently. "Look, Decker. You don't like me and I don't like you. We're never going to see eye to eye. You remind me of my father and I can't even fathom a guess at who I remind you of. But whoever it is, you clearly disapprove. I'm not going to change you, and you're not going to change me."

"I'm glad we can agree on that."

"Ironically enough, it makes you one of the very few men I could actually grow to respect. When push comes to shove, you belong here, more than any other man I've met. But you could stand to learn a thing or two from Thermopylae."

Decker smirked. "And just what is it you think I need to learn?"

"You don't always have a choice about the outcome. Someday, some army out there might cut your head off, put it on a stick, and crucify your body. The only difference is whether they're going to do it on the battlefield with your three hundred loyal and very _dead_ men... or when you're running scared because the rules say that five thousand men should never attempt to stop two million."

Decker stood up and tosses his bottle in the trash. "And you need to make damn sure you don't confuse pride, boredom, or an inability to accept your limitations for ideals. If you do, then every ounce of grief and pain you cause to your men and their families was for nothing."

Hannibal stood, and offered a hand to Decker. Decker hesitated a moment, then shook with him. It was not quite a truce - more an agreement to disagree. The respect was, in fact, mutual. And it would remain a common ground even if no other common ground could be found.


	19. Chapter Eighteen

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

There was an unwritten rule that nobody went to the diner on a Saturday night alone. It was the exclusive terrain of couples and groups of people looking for someone to become coupled with. If Hannibal was aware of this rule, he ignored it, sauntering into the diner with a confident grin. Scanning the room he nodded to the cadets he knew, which were pretty much all of them. But after a few smiles and waves, his interest was drawn to the couple in the far booth: Decker and his beautiful "study buddy."

They were sitting across from each other, an open book between them which they both appeared to be ignoring. The sight made him pause for a moment. Not that he particularly cared who Decker was studying with. Or who he was sleeping with, for that matter. And not that he thought Decker was sleeping with her, either. She had a style and air about her that couldn't be taught. Smooth edges that no amount of filing was going to help Decker match. He'd never keep up with her, even if he did manage to get her legs open. She expected more. And with a body like that - and brain, too, judging by the open book on the table - she deserved more. Maybe it was time he met her.

Hands in his pockets, he walked confidently to the table and greeted Decker with a smile. "Rod, how's it going?"

Calling him "Decker" sounded too cold and uncaring. Not that he much _did _care. But first impressions were important.

Clearly surprised by Hannibal's sudden presence, Decker did a double take. Most likely he had been so busy looking at the girl and dreaming about what he would like to do to her, he had never noticed Hannibal approaching. Fixing Hannibal in a cold, steady look, there was a slight hesitation before he spoke.

"John."

The tone and look were neutral. But something about him seemed to tense, become more alert. There was another small pause before Decker turned back to the woman and spoke in his usual commanding voice. "Vivian Daily, allow me to introduce John Smith, a fellow classmate of mine."

It was a textbook perfect introduction, and Hannibal immediately extended a hand, offering a full smile. "Call me Hannibal. Everyone does. It's very nice to meet you."

He'd seen her around. He'd been watching with amusement during what had to be the first time they'd met - in the public library, where she'd decorated the floor with microfilm. But he'd never been formally introduced. He'd never been this close to her. She really was remarkably attractive.

Smiling up at him, she took his hand, giving it a firm squeeze. "It's nice to meet you, too."

Releasing his hand, she looked at Decker, then back to Hannibal, her curiosity apparent in her expression. Hannibal almost laughed at the expression on Decker's face. He'd probably been working on her for weeks. And that look in her eyes - as subtle as she could make it but still noticeable - had to be grating on his nerves. She was polite, and she would never think to rake him up and down. But she smelled that sex appeal a mile away - just the way he'd known she would. The way every available woman did - and some who weren't so available. Decker really was completely out of his league.

Too bad he was trying so hard, or the outcome of this conversation might be very different. But Hannibal had no interest in upstaging him in such a public place. "Well, I don't want to intrude. It seems like you two are pretty well engrossed in," he turned the book to see what it was, "chemistry. Just figured I'd come and say hi."

"Hello," Decker said back, a little too abrasively.

Hannibal smiled, and raised a brow at him. "Are you going to the fall dance?"

Decker's mouth gave a twitch. "Vivian and I both will be going to the fall dance."

It was a statement, but the warning was clear to Hannibal. He ignored it, instead beaming as he looked back at her. "Wonderful! I haven't seen you there before. This will be your first time?"

There was no hiding the excitement and she didn't bother to try. "Yes! I can't wait to see the inside of the hall. If its half as beautiful on the inside as it is on the out I'll be thrilled."

She noted he was still standing, and the confusion that crossed her face was suddenly apparent. He knew what she was thinking. If he was going to talk, he really should be invited to sit down. But he wasn't going to push his luck.

"Are you meeting friends here John?" she asked.

"None in particular. I was just tired of the dorms. The scenery leaves something to be desired."

"Well, why don't you join us?"

Decker's jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed on her. "I'm sure John has other plans, Viv. After all, he stays very busy."

"Busy might be pushing it," Hannibal answered. "But I do have other places to be."

The sound of his name from somewhere over his shoulder attracted his attention and he waved at the group of cadets in the far booth, beckoning him over. He was smiling when he looked back.

"If you'll excuse me, I think those are some of my adoring fans."

The light, good-natured sarcasm went well with the perfectly practiced smile. She laughed out loud, then continued with mock seriousness. "Far be it from me to keep you from your people. You must go. Your public awaits."

He smiled, and took her hand off the table, kissing the back of her fingers before taking a step back. He clapped Decker's shoulder with a brief, "Good seeing you," before he headed to the far table.

The table he walked up on was crowded and loud and a bit raunchier than his tastes normally ran. He'd known a number of boys just like them back home. Different names, different accents, different families, but essentially the same. What he didn't quite understand was how those people had ended up _here_, of all places. After all, coming here was what had made him different from all of that - what put him in a whole different class from the boys back home.

He made a habit to be aware of everyone in room, who came and went, who was doing what and with whom. One of things he kept a keen eye on was Vivian and Decker. Even with just the occasional glance out of the corner of his eye, he could spot the tension. Their intense discussion turned rapidly into a quiet argument.

Still keeping up the raucous conversation with his group, offering a witty comment here and there, he kept his covert surveillance of his surroundings. He could see the front door and the side one, and he could see when Decker hastily stood up, took out his wallet and dropped some money on the table. He also noticed Vivian take the money and shove it back into his hand. It looked like Rod had managed to piss her off but good. Laughing at the punch line of Brown's dirty joke, he noticed Decker leaving alone. Well that certainly made things more interesting. If he was trying to get laid, he was sure as hell going about it the wrong way.

Hannibal cast another lingering glance at her, then finished the rest of his drink, leaving his glass on the table as he got up and skirted his way around the people to the bathroom. He stalled for a few minutes, checked his clothes, checked his hair, and finally walked back out through the diner. This time, he walked deliberately close to the table where Vivian was still sitting, and paused there.

"Did Rod leave?" He was careful to appear concerned about this, watching her for any indication that Decker had left at her not-so-subtle request.

She was angry. He could tell that just by looking at the fire in her eyes. But she didn't want to air her dirty laundry in public, either. Smart girl. She chose her answer carefully. The length of time it took her was a good indication of just how mad she was.

"He... suddenly remembered he had a prior engagement."

That was a lie, and very obviously one. But it also put the burden of any further discussion squarely on him, and not her. It was smart.

"Is he coming back?" Hannibal asked, glancing out the windows at the dark shadows creeping through the streets. "It's getting late. Surely he didn't expect you to walk home alone."

She sighed and leaned forward, holding her head in her hands. "To tell you the truth, I have no idea what he was expecting."

Hannibal slipped into the booth across from her so that he wasn't towering over her. "Of you?" he asked. "Or what he was expecting you to do to get yourself home?"

She gave a short laugh, and looked at him through her fingers. "I have four older brothers, each one bigger, rowdier, and more overprotective than the next. If he 'expected' anything, they would never find the body."

He laughed. "I'm glad to hear it. Any chance one of those brothers will be able to walk you home?"

"I have no way of getting a hold of them."

"Well, I guess it's up to me, then."

She blinked at him, startled. "Up to you?"

"Of course." He stood again and offered her a hand. "I couldn't possibly let you walk home alone in the dark."

She hesitated for a long moment, looking down at the book that was still open on the table, then back up at him. Finally, she placed her fingers against his palm and let him help her to her feet. He closed the book as she reached for her bag. Once she'd placed the book inside, he took it and slung it over his shoulder, then offered his other arm for her. She managed a smile as she threaded her arm through his.

"Thank you."

"My pleasure. As confident as I am in your brothers' powers of retaliation, it's better if you just get home safely to begin with."


	20. Chapter Nineteen

**CHAPTER NINETEEN**

There was a certain amount of shoulder rubbing and socialization that came with formal dances. Hannibal by far preferred to do that sort of thing alone, but most men preferred to do it with a woman on their arm. The formal gathering therefore had nearly as many women as men - all dressed to the nines and smiling. They were easy to find, in this town. Whether they liked or even _knew _a guy or not, they all flocked at the opportunity to come to one of these events.

Interestingly enough, Decker was also apparently the type who preferred to do his socializing alone. That was only a problem when he, unlike Hannibal, had actually brought someone with him. Leaving a girl stranded by the punch bowl with no one to talk to in an unfamiliar place was just plain rude. But it did provide Hannibal with an interesting opportunity.

"Viv, so glad you could make it." He reached for her hand and raised it, kissing the backs of her fingers. "You look absolutely stunning."

She smiled politely back at him. "John, it's good to see a familiar face."

"You sound disappointed," he answered with an more genuine smile. She was not only disappointed, she was distracted and anxious as well.

She lowered her eyes at that, and couldn't quite keep the smile in place. "It's... a very big party. I didn't quite know it would be like this."

"It only seems big when you don't know anyone," he answered sympathetically.

She looked up again, chewing nervously on her lower lip. "You, uh, you look good."

He chuckled. "I look like every other man here. The uniform doesn't give a lot of leeway for self-expression. That dress, however, is quite another story."

She smiled, but didn't blush at the compliment. Her response was buttery smooth, sure. "Thank you, I wanted to make this night special."

"And has it been, so far?"

Her gaze darted momentarily to Decker, who was nearly lost within a crowd across the room. But she knew exactly where to look. She'd been keeping her eyes on him, waiting for him to come and rescue her. _Tsk tsk, Decker... Your priorities are a little lacking._

"I expected..." her gaze slowly returned to John, "a lot more."

Hannibal's expression changed to one of sympathy. "I'm sorry. We're not a terribly exciting bunch, underneath it all."

"So I see."

He looked away, glancing over the crowd. "To tell you the truth, I've never been impressed with this sort of thing. The swing club is fun, if you've never been there. But these formal affairs?" He shrugged. "I could take them or leave them."

"Oh."

He grinned as he looked back at her. "It all depends on the company."

Her smile saddened, but held. "Yes, I guess that's true."

He studied her for a moment, and cast a quick glance over to the punch bowl, noting the empty glass in her hand. "Can I get you a drink?"

For just a moment, her eyes brightened again. "Yes, thank you. That would be wonderful."

He took her glass, letting his fingers brush hers a little longer than absolutely necessary. She didn't pull away. In no incredible hurry, he refilled her drink and got one of his own, then returned to find that she was still very much alone. Decker was off in his own little world. He probably hadn't turned to look at her once. Bad move...

As he handed the glass to her, he cast a lingering glance in Decker's direction. "I would say he doesn't mean anything by it, but I'm sure you already know that."

"Oh, yes," she sighed. "He just seems very busy, that's all."

"He doesn't know how to balance business with pleasure." Hannibal glanced back at her and smiled softly. "It's unfortunate that you're a casualty of his attempts to figure that out. Especially when you really _do _look so stunning."

Finally, she was beginning to relax. He could see it in her smile, and the way her eyes finally moved from Decker to him, and stayed there. "So," she glanced around and gestured in a sort of mocking way, "where's your date? Aren't you Mr. Popularity? Where are all your fans?"

He chuckled. "My way of balancing business with pleasure is to deal with one at a time and devote myself completely to whichever I happen to be tending to. This... get together," he glanced around, "is all about business and impressions. If I brought a woman here, it would just be to use her presence on my arm to make me look better. I don't think that's entirely fair to her and besides," he smiled knowingly as he looked back at her, "I don't need it."

She tossed her head back as she laughed. "My, aren't we confident?"

"Confidence is one thing I've never lacked."

Her eyes, sparkling with some new intrigue, fixed back on him. "Sadly, for all your talk of not mixing business and pleasure, I see that you don't always follow that rule. Unless, of course, you think I'm part of your 'business'."

"My business is done here." His smile remained broad. "I was just about to leave when you caught my eye."

"Just about to leave?" she quipped. "That's too bad. Then I really will be lonely."

"I was thinking of going for a walk. You're welcome to join me." He cast a quick glance in Decker's direction. "Somehow, I doubt he'll even realize you're gone."

Her brow knotted slightly as she stared at Decker for a moment, her lips turning down ever so slightly at the corners. She lingered in her doubt for a moment, but the stifling sense of being completely alone again in the crowded room weighed too heavily on her, just the way he knew it would.

"Yes." She turned back to John. "I'd love to go for a walk."

"Wonderful." He finished his drink, then offered her an arm as he turned to stand beside her. "Since you're in high heels, we won't go far."

It always helped to notice the little things. And it never failed to elicit a smile. "I could always take them off."

He chuckled in return as he offered her his arm. "I like the way you think."

*X*X*X*

They were not far from the building when the rain started. There was no warning. A rumble of thunder, and suddenly the sky opened and began pouring buckets of rain down on them. Squealing in surprise and laughing at the utter ridiculousness of how quickly the scenery had changed, she pressed in closer to him. In a second, his coat was off and around her, but it wouldn't do much good - at least not for long. They needed shelter. And stranded in the middle of the parking lot, there really wasn't any.

A moment later, still hiding under what measly shelter his jacket provided, she followed his direction as he led her down the row between the cars, then paused at one he seemed to recognize, opened the back door, and gestured her inside. Shaking off the rain, she dove into the backseat. He followed, shutting the door hard behind him, flicking the water off of his hands as the rain pounded the roof of the car.

Still laughing, trying to assess the damage to her hair and dress and shoes, Viv turned and looked at him. "Whose car is this?"  
"I haven't the slightest idea," he answered casually.

She found herself staring at him as he unlaced his shoes and pried them off. "You're serious," she realized.

He glanced up at her and gave a full smile, but didn't answer. Oh, God, he really was serious. She laughed. "Do you always seek shelter in the back seat of random people's cars?"

"Only when there's no other shelter available."

Her eyes were glued to him as he unbuttoned his shirt, twirled it into a rope, and wrung it out on the floor. It was a very practical move, not a seductive one. But she noticed, just the same, the way that he was toned in all the right places. And just the same, her eyes lingered there. As he draped the shirt over the back of the seat in front of him, he leaned against the door and smiled.

"I'd invite you to wring out your clothes, but I think that might be a little too forward of me."  
She laughed. "Just slightly, yes."

He was eyeing her curiously, but the look wasn't lecherous. "I have to ask. Why come with him? Was it just for the experience and being able to say you'd done it? Or did you really think he would make sure you enjoyed it?"

She blinked, taken aback by the open, forward question. It took her a moment to form a response. "He's been nothing but attentive so far. I had no reason to believe this would be any different."

John nodded slowly, but didn't answer. Her brow furrowed as she watched him.

"Why do you ask, anyway?" she questioned.

"Out of respect."

"Respect?"

"Well, if he is truly interested in you, and if he has a prayer of keeping you, it's not my place to interfere in that."

"Keeping me?" She laughed slightly. "You make it sound like I'm a pet."

"Not my intention," he assured her. He sounded almost apologetic. "I just don't want to overstep any boundaries. And as much as I dislike the guy, I do respect him."

She smirked. "I should think you'd be more worried about overstepping _my _boundaries."

He opened his mouth to answer, but he didn't have a chance. Suddenly, the door behind him was open and he was struggling to catch his balance before he fell out onto the pavement.

"Get up."

Rod's voice, over the sound of the rain, was loud and firm. Her eyes widened to the size of saucers as she crawled across the seat to look up at him while John found his footing and stood up in the rain.

"Rod, we were just talking. You went off and -"

She had no chance to say anything else. As John moved to the side of the door, Rod closed it hard, keeping his hand against it and keeping her out of the conversation.

*X*X*X*

"I don't know what the hell you're trying to prove," Decker said low, almost inaudible over the sound of the rain. "But if you ever so much as look at her again, I _will _get you kicked out of this school, and you can go back to that little backwater town you came from."

Hannibal raised a brow - both at the aggression itself and the fact that Decker actually seemed to think he had that kind of power. Not to get him kicked out. The man had enough ammunition to manage that. But the comment about his hometown, and the insinuation that with nothing left to gain, Hannibal would have no choice but to return, was amusing to say the least.

"That's good to know, Decker," he answered with a smile. "If I ever get the urge to look at her again, I'll bear in mind that I might as well go all the way. After all, the price is the same."

Hannibal saw the blow coming, but didn't try to avoid it. Instead, he took it and immediately had his fist up to deliver his own. Without a shirt to grab, Decker was at some disadvantage. Hannibal wasn't. As soon as the blow landed across Decker's chin, Hannibal had him by the jacket and then on the ground. Rolling through the runoff rainwater, saturated with dirt and oil and grease from the parking lot, there was no one around to break them up. That was a good thing, in a way. There would be no one to report them, either. They both knew damn well that this kind of fighting could get them both expelled.

Bleeding, breathing hard, soaked to the bone, and exhausted, they finally separated themselves, moving back against opposite cars and looking across at each other. "You're a fool, Decker," Hannibal managed, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. "It's like you said to me. I don't have to sabotage you and your girl. You'll do that all by yourself. I just felt bad for her."

"You're a goddamn bleeding heart," Decker growled back.

"No. But I don't gamble with anything I'm not prepared to lose."

"Since when?"

Hannibal didn't answer. He just pulled himself up, turning to spit blood into the runoff. He was trying not to shiver from the cold, but he wasn't quite succeeding.

Decker rose, across from him, holding his side. His glare was penetrating. "Mark my words, Smith. Someday, all this shit you pull is going to catch up with you. And when it does, I will gladly be the one to put the final nail in your coffin."

"You do that, Decker."

Hannibal turned towards the car, wiping the rainwater out of his eyes, and opened the door to grab his shirt and jacket from beside the wide-eyed girl who had been watching them. He ignored her, closing the door just as soon as he had his clothes. Then he turned back and looked at Decker once more.

"While we're making predictions, I've got a few words you can mark, as well. Because who we are and the decisions we make will catch up with all of us someday. And when you stand on my grave, proud of yourself because you won, I'll be equally proud of the fact that I will have accomplished more in my life than you could ever _dream_ to."

With one last glare in Decker's direction, he turned and walked away, trying to keep the blood off of his jacket. This uniform was going to be a bitch to replace without explaining how it got destroyed.


	21. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

Hannibal had never seen a celebration like the graduation from West Point. A mix of party and formal procession, seriousness and elation, a crowd teeming with excitement and relief. Hannibal watched it all with a more reserved smile, shrugging off the questions about his absent family as he was introduced to the mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers of the other cadets. No, officers. They were no longer cadets.

As they all finally went their separate ways, he turned down any number of invitations to dinner and celebrations. When he had said all that he needed to say to men he may or may not see again - so much depended on world events that no one could know until they happened - he retreated, watching from a distance as he reached into his pocket for a cigar - the first one he'd had in four long years. Smoking was against school rules and that was one rule he'd decided very early on he wouldn't break, just for the sake of not breaking it.

As he lit the cigar and pulled the first satisfying drag into his mouth, he closed his eyes and leaned back against the pillar behind him. Sitting on the steps of the science building, a place normally flooded with students trying to get from one class to the next, it was oddly serene. The warm sun on his face felt good, and the sense of accomplishment felt even better. In a way, he was surprised he'd made it this far. He'd been nearly expelled so many times, it was almost comical. Always walking the fine line, always falling back on his grades and the truth of the fact that they were his own. He smiled as he considered that. He really had done it...

"Congratulations, son."

The voice made his blood run cold, instantly. Eyes still closed, he took a deep breath, then rose slowly to his feet before he turned to face the man standing at the bottom of the steps, smiling up at him with his hands at his sides. The fact that he'd come dressed in his Class As set off all sorts of warning bells in Hannibal's mind.

"This is supposed to be a bonding moment, isn't it?" he said coldly. "You in your uniform, me in mine."

The man chuckled. "Well, I wouldn't quite put it that way."

"If you expect me to salute, Sir, you can go to hell."

The man standing at the bottom of the steps actually looked taken aback. If his mind hadn't been racing over so many other things, Hannibal probably would've found that funny. Had he actually managed to leave his father speechless?

Descending the steps slowly, he kept his eyes locked and his tone completely cold. "How did you find me?"

"Find you?" Father chuckled. "It was no secret you would be here."

"Really? Well, that's fascinating, seeing as I wasn't entirely sure I would be here." At the bottom of the steps, he stopped and faced the man head on. "My name was never on the rolls."

"I just assumed you'd changed it."

"You assumed correctly. And there was a reason why I changed it. I'm done with you."

Father sighed, his smile finally falling. "Come on, John, this is a time for celebration not for -"

"This is a time for you to turn right back around and return to that hell hole you crawled out of," Hannibal interrupted. "All I ever was to you was a vessel to carry on the family name. Well, you lose. I did this for me, not for you. And it's _my _name that will live on, not yours."

"This really isn't the time, John. There's a big celebration planned in your honor and I've come to escort you home."

"My honor? Or yours?"

Father sighed deeply again. "Really, now, can't we put this childish squabble behind us?"

"No," Hannibal answered firmly. "We can't. You know why? Because I spent my childhood in silence, without a voice. And now that I have one, I'm going to use it."

Father said nothing. The smile was long gone now, replaced with a blank, unreadable expression. Hannibal's was hard as he stared back, and continued with a low, cold tone.

"I've taken a post in France. I don't know where I'll go from there, but I can guarantee you it'll be _anywhere _but your doorstep. Take my inheritance and give it to charity. Or have it shredded and used for fertilizer."

"I think I'd prefer to give it to Sherry," Father answered, equally cold. "She'll need all the help she can get, raising your bastard child."

Hannibal knew that was meant to elicit a reaction. He was surprised by how little reaction he actually felt. "Give it to her, then," he shot bitterly. "Or what's left of it whenever you finish making installments to her parents."

Father's shoulders pushed back and he stood up straighter. "Now, you listen to -"

"No, _you _listen!" Hannibal yelled over him. "You were the one who made the decision that her child would be born a bastard, not me. But you don't have a say over this decision. Go back and tell her what a horrible person I am. Or don't. I don't really care. But if you think I have any intention of ever setting foot in Kansas again, you are sorely mistaken."

Hannibal took a step back, then turned away. But he only made it a few steps before his father's voice stopped him again. "What should I tell your mother?"

Pausing for a moment, Hannibal turned and looked over his shoulder. "Tell her the same thing I told you. Go to hell."

Without waiting for a response, he turned again. This time, the man behind him didn't call him back.


End file.
